


Over the Moon

by saintsaint



Category: A Hat in Time (Video Game)
Genre: "u've become kinda like a sibling to me isn't it weird how much we relate to each other haha--, --waiT WHY ARE YOU ME. I'M ME", Aftermath of trauma, Found Family, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Dying My Hair Blue, Identity Issues, Major Character Undeath, Memory Issues, Nonbinary Character, Siblings, almost literally Two Halves of a Whole Idiot, slow burn found family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 68,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsaint/pseuds/saintsaint
Summary: A piece of the Horizon falls into Subcon Village and becomes the Prince. Or... the Prince becomes a piece of the Horizon? Existing is new and very confusing for Moonjumper, and it only gets worse when they get drawn into contracting for the mysterious spirit haunting the forest...Facing yourself is never easy, but this is just ridiculous.
Relationships: (that's p much it tbh), Moonjumper & Snatcher (A Hat in Time), The Prince & The Prince
Comments: 237
Kudos: 302





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mary Oliver said "you do not have to be good./ you do not have to walk on your knees/ for a hundred miles through the desert repenting" so i said "ok lol" and wrote something for a game i know nearly nothing about :) hope u enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

There is no “once upon a time” in the Horizon.

To be fair, there is no “once upon a space” there, either. Even the concept of “once” is a difficult concept to grasp in the Horizon, as is the very possibility of “one.”

The Horizon is the meeting of time and space; it isn’t possible to remove one from the other because they _are_ one.

Similarly, there is no _one_ inhabitant of the Horizon, if it can be said that there are any inhabitants at all. Even in spacetimes where space and time are separate, _life_ is a nebulous thing, after all: an animal can be alive, a plant can be, but can a robot? What if, while cleaning its ship, that robot comes to think and feel? What it develops life-like empathy for the child on board its ship? And what of the child itself; is she alive if she is biologically, fundamentally different from most other plants, animals, even people? Should a person's body stop breathing but its ghost linger, is that alive?

Perhaps it is better to speak of _existence_. All of these things, living or dead, may exist. Even the Horizon can be said to exist, for all that it is unreachable.

No, the issue isn’t quite about _life_ , or _where_ , or _when_. The issue is that along all of time and space, the Horizon exists and has always existed as a whole. There is no need for the concept of “one” because it is already entirely complete. There is nothing separate to separate.

Until, of course, there is.

For the first time, there exists in the Horizon the barest, vaguest suggestion of _curiosity_. About what? Well, itself, which is to say time and space. There really is an awful lot of it, isn’t there? Planets and seasons and hours and _life_ , shockingly, bits of spacetime that consider themselves separate, and isn’t that unusual? Isn’t that… _interesting_? 

Curiosity blooms: why on earth would anything consider itself not a part of everything? To be all of existence is calm and still; the alternative is certainly not. The Horizon doesn’t understand, but it finds that against all odds it _wants_ to.

This is quite alarming to the Horizon, which has never _wanted_ before — indeed, the Horizon has never even had a _first_ of any kind, and now it’s suddenly had three in the form of “curiosity,” “want,” and “alarm” — not to mention that now it’s _counting_ things.

This is unprecedented. The Horizon is uncertain about this development, but... more than that it wants to know what happens next — and it has literally everywhen and -where to start.

Too eager to deliberate, the Horizon picks an eon and a planet arbitrarily and observes, seeking to understand: why be one instead of all? Why separate?

The planet is a small one, barely dense enough to keep a small moon in its orbit, and life comes to it in the usual ways. Still, the Horizon observes closely, ravenously, as life flourishes and changes, dies and develops. 

If there’s a point when life starts to think of itself as _separate_ , the Horizon misses it. It considers going back, tracing along every molecule and moment to find the answer, but time moves forward and that seems so much more interesting — sea life crawls onto land, adapts legs (and how fascinating is that, to travel one’s space by controlled falling?), breathes air, and evolves in a thousand thousand directions at once.

It is when life starts to think of itself as not just separate but _individual_ that the Horizon realizes that something beyond life has changed. It missed this moment too, and it seems so vital that the Horizon immediately wishes to go back and observe again, pin down the very atom of this change —

But it can’t. Time moves forward, relentless, as the Horizon stumbles against its edge, confused — but there’s no time for that, for over the course of a few thousand revolutions of the planet, societies form and the Horizon is drawn to observe, to understand — 

The planet has a saying that “curiosity killed the cat,” but that’s not quite right, and the Horizon lets that part of the world fly by. Flight is a curious idea, even if not all birds have it, but the Horizon dismisses this as well; and, though compelling, the hunger of flame in spirit form is so familiar that the Horizon looks elsewhere.

It’s getting harder to focus on everything when there’s so many tiny details — the Horizon’s alarm is growing but its drive to know is growing faster — it closes in on the planet, observing humankind, listening to the way its newest generation is spoken to.

There's a nonsense lullaby the children sing, about leaping cows and cutlery pretending at life; the Horizon learns of it while passing the moon, which seems such a delightful coincidence that it _laughs_ —

It… laughs?

In a sudden panic, the thing that had been the Horizon reaches back, but that it can reach at all means it is too late: the Horizon cannot reach, does not _do_ , cannot _be_ , so then what—?

It isn’t the Horizon anymore. It is a _piece_ of it.

The Horizon Piece scrabbles against the moon because, all at once, it is _scared_. It has never _been_ scared before, never been _separate_ , and when did that happen? Where was that moment? How could it miss it?

The planet drags at the Horizon Piece, and it is too little and weak to resist; it is pulled down, down, the moon impassive at its leaving, and even then the frightened thing cannot help but want to know what happens next.

It is almost like an ember, drawn helplessly down instead of up but just as potentially fleeting. It gathers as much of itself as it can (and it’s practically nothing compared to the Horizon, how can this have happened, how could it have _let_ this happen —), somehow certain that with every passing moment it is burning out, losing more and more of its connection to the Horizon until—?

The forest beneath it is so dense that the Horizon Piece cannot see beyond its canopies. It despairs, piercing and sudden — it has existed as itself for so short a time, and already its end approaches — before a section of the forest abruptly loses all its leaves, growing dark and cold in a brief season, revealing — a _village_.

The Horizon Piece desperately angles itself towards it, even as the seasons around it start to slow with its fading connection to the Horizon. It has so little time left.

At the village’s highest point: an ornate home. The Horizon Piece darts from room to room, clutching itself together, but the upper floors hold only figures that are frozen solid and a strange, achingly cold beast that repels it.

Time is against it (which feels like a betrayal: not so long ago it _was_ time); it dives deeper, hoping, _wanting_ , and in the basement the Horizon Piece finds its salvation.

The cold of the cellar ensures that the figure is well-preserved without being encased in soul-leeching ice. If it were alive and escaped its chains, it could walk around with that body, traverse space, _exist_.

More importantly, it’s empty.

The Horizon Piece once was everything; no knowledge was barred from it. Now, it’s operating off of a guess and desperate hope: please, _please_ , let it exist for just a little longer.

It collects every last bit of itself it can and, for the first time, the Horizon Piece tries something new.

***

Once upon a time, the body of the prince woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: semi-dissociated narrative; threat of death/non-existence; reference to dead bodies. lmk if there's anything else i should include!
> 
> 1\. NO update schedule, NO beta, LIMITED planning and proofreading. i am here to project my own issues and battle against my ADHD and i WILL fail  
> 2\. i estimate this story will be more than 10.000 words and i would be surprised if it got to 25.000  
> 3\. wrt the rating: i would give this story to a 12yo for sure, and i might leave it conspicuously out for anyone as young as 8. scary/bad things happen, but nothing particularly graphic, and i promise u a positive, hopeful ending.  
> 4\. i have not played this game, i have seen less than half of a playthrough, and tbh most of my knowledge about it comes from doodledrawsthings on tumblr (particularly their interpretation of Moonjumper as a body thief/Horizon thing -- if any of what i have written is interesting to you, go read/look at/enjoy their stuff!). so if i get anything glaringly wrong, just lmk and i'll try to fix it :)  
> 5\. this story is also inspired by Alan Moore's run of the Swamp Thing (bc i am literally always thinking about it), a dream i had about nanobots accidentally achieving sentience, and the feeling you get when u realize ur siblings remember shared experiences differently than you do
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: a piece of the Horizon fell and found a place/person to call its home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

_Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon..._

It remembers: his mother used to sing that lullaby to them when he was a child, back before they were a prince, before he’d even met Vanessa. Mother would pull them close and hum in its ear until he would giggle and sing the lyrics himself. It had been her idea for them to start taking music lessons — she’d always been so proud of its voice.

In the end the violin had been a better match for them, even if Vanessa had protested the practice it required. How long has it been since he sang anything? It tries now, in this warm moment between sleeping and waking, just a few notes under their breath.

Dry air rasps through his lungs, catches — and their throat _burns_.

They gasp, the pain ripping him awake, and twist in their shackles as something falls to the ground with a metallic clatter. He has never known pain before — or, it has never known pain like this? Their shoulders are on _fire_ , every nerve and muscle screams, and every desperate gasp for breath sends agony shooting through its lungs. The pressure on their arms and shoulders is _too much_ , please let it stop, _please_ —

With a _shnk_ , the cuffs binding its arms release; for a moment they hang by his wrists, and then their weight pulls the shackles from the wall. His legs hit the ground and can’t hold them — it stumbles, freed arms flailing, and barely manages to catch themself with a jolt before it can face-plant directly onto the iced-over cellar floor.

They stay like that for a long moment, pain rolling through them in waves.

Where is he? What is happening? Why were they shackled to the wall, and… goodness, why are the floors made of ice? There had been something resting on his head just a moment ago — what was it that fell?

For whatever reason, that last question feels the most pressing as their gaze is drawn to a glint of gold.

There on the icy cellar floor lays a simple golden crown. Though old, it is clearly cared for, shiny enough to have been recently buffed. They recognize it as a gift Vanessa had presented to Prince Luka, in celebration of their engagement.

He recoils, but they remember:

Vanessa had locked him away down here. Oh, she had made sure he was watered and fed, cleaned him up, tended the wounds she caused with her shackles and chains. She’d been so _delicate_ with him as he hung there, her caresses almost loving — but that hadn’t stopped the rages, nor the rest of it.

There’s only so long a human being can survive that kind of treatment. Eventually, Prince Luka had died. 

Then… there’s only one way they could be here now.

Ghosts aren’t common, especially in these civilized times, but a traumatic enough incident is still known to occasionally raise the dead. Being locked up by your fiancée and eventually killed for a minor misunderstanding probably counts.

If they had the courage to look back over his shoulder, they’re sure his corpse would still be hanging there. Instead they curl in on themself and shudder, feeling as cold as the ice beneath them.

Everyone knows not to blame a ghost for existing — it’s a tragedy, a result of something that happened _to_ them. In Probonough, the community always comes together to help a spirit process its experiences to send it on its way. But are Subcon’s exorcism practices the same as what he grew up with? What will Subcon do when they find that Vanessa’s prince has died, and in the care of their beloved queen?

Worse — while ordinary folks can’t touch a ghost, magic users can. What will _Vanessa_ do? 

The silence of the cellar suddenly feels menacing.

They have to _go_.

But the glint of the crown catches his eye again and they hesitate.

 _Should_ it go? Vanessa might be cruel, but she needs help. Prince Luka was arranged for her many years ago, when they were still children — isn’t it his responsibility to stay for her?

 _No!_ Their responsibilities ended when she _killed_ him. They don’t want to know what she could do to a ghost, not when they’ve only just started existing.

Something about that last thought feels odd — but the crown winks at them in the slight light, and when they uncertainly reach for it their attention is caught by his hands.

Ghosts are fragile things by nature. They don’t often have the energy required for a full manifestation, much less hands; at most they tend to have shadowy faces and maybe a spectral limb. Yet he has not only hands, but — they run its hands over their body — a fairly robust corporeal form, down to the worn but finely brocaded jacket and the bristle of a beard Vanessa had eventually stopped shaving for him.

It lifts one hand to the faint light streaming through one of the small cellar windows, feeling… curious.

At first it thinks that he’s just shaking, which is certainly true: their whole body is trembling in the wake of the pain it’s gradually started to acclimate to, not to mention the freezing air. But that doesn’t account for the color of his hands — a pale but distinct _blue_ — nor the way pieces of them keep blipping out and back in, neat little two-dimensional squares appearing and disappearing at random.

The shackles and chains around his wrists clink gently as they rotate them in the light, staring. The confetti of its hands peels away from his body and drifts skywards before snapping back in place like it had never left.

It doesn’t hurt. In fact, it barely even feels like anything — even the pain that had wracked them before is fading, and its mind is finally starting to clear.

They reach out and gently brush a finger against his crown. The metal is ice cold — and with a thought, it begins to vanish, perfect little square by perfect little square, until it’s as if it was never there at all.

They sit back, swallow his dread, and look over their shoulder at where he had been hanging to find — an empty wall.

There’s no body. So, logically: not a ghost.

They look at his hands, light blue and solid. When they curve them in, like they were holding something, the squares that drift from them flicker and coalesce until:

Perfect and whole, the crown sits neatly in his hands.

They stare at it.

Magic has never run in his family's blood. His grandparents had forged their place in Probonough through hard work and kindness, eventually being elected to the royal positions for those reasons alone.

But a lack of magic in his family didn’t mean they were never taught to recognize it. He'd grown up hearing stories of strange individuals living in the outer forests, familiar folks who had lost control and lost themselves. Every fairy tale was clear: magic was power, and while all power could corrupt, magic corrupted on a different level.

It was said that not even death could stop a magic user who had surrendered to their emotions — their magic would just go on without them, burning the remains of their soul for energy.

They twitch their pale fingers and the crown vanishes once again, leaving his hands empty. 

The thing is, magic users always show signs of magic before they hit puberty. Prince Luka had died over a decade past that cut-off.

So: this is odd. _Particularly_ because this magic bears a strong resemblance to the Horizon, ephemeral and beyond spacetime.

...And beyond Prince Luka’s knowledge.

Their shoulders start to prickle.

There are places and times that know of the Horizon, but this planet is not one of them; it simply isn’t possible for him to recognize it. Which means…?

The squares lifting from their hands flicker more rapidly. Some are misshapen, warping and twisting into rectangles and stranger things as his tremor picks up.

There’s no body, so he can’t be a ghost. But Prince Luka died, and he never had magic — more impossible still, he never knew of the Horizon and thus could never identify it.

The shapes separating from the body flex and buckle. Strands of shadow seem to lift off its skin, contorting and dissolving in the air.

They still remember the Horizon. It remembers being completely whole across all of space and time; it remembers being too curious not to observe, and it remembers falling, plummeting past this world’s moon, desperately searching for something to hold itself together as they faded away.

They remember finding this cellar, and this body.

They aren’t Prince Luka. They’re a _Horizon Piece_.

 _No!_ they think, strange blue hands clasping at their arms ( _his_ arms?). _I_ am _him. I remember everything he does. How could I not be him?_ The lullaby, his mother’s lullaby, echoes in their mind. _She sang to me every night. I remember. I remember!_

The whole of Prince Luka’s life is right there, his memories steady against the rushing whirlpool of the Horizon Piece’s thoughts, and _the Horizon isn’t_ supposed _to think. It isn’t supposed to_ do _, it’s not supposed to be separate!_

Its magic surges, clipping away and returning parts of its body so quickly that their whole form is distorted by color and shadow. _This isn’t supposed to be possible. I can’t be —_

“ ** _Who’s there!_** ” a familiar voice shouts from the floor above — _Vanessa_.

There’s the clatter of footsteps, and they can hear her clawing and banging against the walls as she storms towards the basement doors.

 _She’ll destroy us_ , part of them says.

 _She’ll stay with us_ , says another. _I won’t be separate anymore._

_We can’t stay here. I can’t go through what she put the prince through, not again._

_She needs us. I made a commitment to her_.

 _But we didn’t!_ they reply, and the doors to the cellar burst open — the shadows of her form lurk at the top of the stairs.

“ ** _My prince?_** ” she calls. Her voice is monstrous, chilling, _tortured_ , just as it was during the whole awful period she kept him chained up here before he finally died.

“ _No,_ ” they breathe.

Just before she can reach the bottom of the steps and see them for herself, their body distorts into a thousand writhing shapes — and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: confused pronoun usage in narrative; descriptions of pain; reference to canon-typical torture; character reacting to their (un)death; dissociation; body dysmorphia; identity crisis. lmk if there's anything else i should include!
> 
> 1\. Megan Whalen Turner talks about how she's prefers to get the worst part of the story over early and spend the rest of it dealing with the aftermath. i'm of a similar opinion... BUT, there's two more violent-adjacent scenes planned for this fic. sorry lol.  
> 2\. i made up Uncon (EDIT: now Probonough) as Subcon's sister village, and where Luka grew up (oh god, does that clash w canon idk jkdlslkdsf). we'll hear more about it later!  
> 3\. i just think Hammerspace is a cool ability you guys. there's more awaiting MJ, too >:3  
> 4\. unsure if snatcher will show up in the next chapter or the one after that, but i'm really looking forward to their interactions, ahhh!
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Prince Luka was unshackled, wasn't a ghost, used Horizon magic, and realized they weren't actually Prince Luka. They teleported away just before Vanessa could catch them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

_Somewhere safe, somewhere she won’t find me, somewhere no one will know to look—!_

Their vision contorts, and before them the icy cellar stairs and Vanessa’s shadowy skirts warp and _twist_ away until, block by block, the world replaces itself with something different.

It’s dark, wherever this is, and Prince Luka — no, the Horizon Piece — _whoever_ _they are_ flinches violently at the sudden change in their surroundings. They scramble backwards, panicked that Vanessa’s caught them, certain that icy claws are about to pierce them in a furious embrace.

Instead, their foot goes through a hole in the floor.

They have just enough time for a surprised inhale before their left foot goes rushing through empty air. Gravity yanks them down and they flail, leaning back as their other leg folds under the unexpected weight, and they crash to their butt with a pained “oof!”

Still half-convinced that Vanessa has them, they scuttle frantically back, the sharp edges of the board they had broken through scraping harshly at their leg. They’re finally forced to stop when their back hits something solid; they curl in on themself, whimpering, waiting for what’s to come, hoping she’ll be merciful.

After a few moments of nothing but their own harsh breathing, they finally pluck up the nerve to look up and reconsider their surroundings.

For one thing, there’s no Vanessa, and indeed nobody else at all. The room is dark, yes, but not nearly as dark as the cellar. The paneless windows and cracked wooden walls let in a little light from the night sky outside, the stars visible through a dense canopy of dark branches. Though there’s only one door, there are two doorways; the doorless one leads out, revealing a small porch and the remains of a rope-and-wood bridge over a not-insignificant drop.

Cautiously, they feel behind them. Their hand meets roughly carved wood, worn smooth by the touch of hundreds of hands.

They’re out of the cellar.

 _They’re out of the cellar_.

Relief washes through them. Their shoulders shake as their previously panicked breathing turns to quiet sobs. Tears trail down their face. For the first time in far too long, they’re _out_.

Well, no — the realization hits them like a punch to the gut — they’re out _for the first time_. The prince may have been locked up, but the Horizon Piece was down there for hardly any time before it fled. Even if they can remember everything, every moment of the prince’s suffering, they _aren’t_ him. It’s not fair for them to cry about this.

The thought should be sobering, pull them out of these feelings, but instead it makes their tears come faster. They wipe at their face with trembling hands, feeling baffled and guilty.

“H-hey,” they say aloud, and nearly jump at their own voice in the otherwise silent room. It’s hoarse, and besides that has a strange sort of buzzing underneath it; they clear their throat and try again. “There’s, there’s no reason to feel this way. Come on — pull, pull yourself together.”

They sound like the prince, sort of, the same timbre and pattern to their speech, but obfuscated by a strange reverberation that seems to hold their words in the air for longer than expected. It’s like a silent echo, or a bit like all the times young Luka had pressed an ear to his parents’ chests and felt their words rather than heard them.

“You’re _not_ him,” they say firmly, but their voice cracks on the last word and the tears just come faster. Their chest feels heavy with… pain? Grief?

Abruptly they press a hand to their heart. Below their palm is that same steady, strange vibration, something that feels inhuman and Horizon-like. They wait, but no human heartbeat comes.

“See,” they whisper into the darkness around them. “You’re not him, so st-stop crying about it.”

They don’t stop. It turns out they can’t.

Fighting the tears doesn’t do any good so eventually they give up and just let them come. They stay there, curled up on the floor, for a long time.

By the time their sniffling finally peters out, the room has lightened considerably. They couldn’t tell in the darkness, but one of the walls is hung with an old, rust-spotted mirror that reflects the open door framing the waning crescent moon. Its pale light is scattered everywhere.

Their hands are covered in snot, and the moonlight highlights their odd blue color. Sighing, they scrub them together and push themself to their feet.

The fall through the floorboards ripped open a leg of the prince’s pants, and now it hurts to stand on that foot. As they hiss and shift off of it, their attention is caught by the mirror reflecting their movement, and they still.

“Ah,” they say, heart sinking.

They limp to the mirror, cataloguing the differences. It’s not just the light blue coloring, which isn’t limited to their hands but instead covers every inch of skin they can see. Their hair, too, is a different color — even in the dim lighting, they can tell that it has turned an ethereal snow white. Their eyes flash blood-red, vibrant and jewel-like even in the dark; squinting at them for too long gives them a headache, since they seem to be full of impossible, contorting shapes that shouldn’t exist anywhere but the Horizon.

Worse than these changes, though, are the results of the prince’s long imprisonment. The finely made, hand-tailored outfit, once pristine and perfect, now hangs off of their bony body. Their wrists are nearly thin enough now to slip the shackles over them, the chains long enough to wrap them twice around with room to spare. Their cheekbones jut out, the bottom half of their face disguised by the scruff of a beard Vanessa had tired of trimming, and their hair is at least an inch longer than the prince had ever let it get. The face in the mirror is simultaneously jarringly familiar and so strange, hollowed out and exhausted and scared-looking, even with those alien eyes.

“...Right,” they say. Their voice hums, electric and odd in the quiet of the room. “Right. I can’t wear this.”

 _Wear this where?_ part of them wonders, but they push that aside for the moment. There’s no sense in putting the cart before the horse, as it were — they may have once been non-linear and present across all times, but right now the only way forward is, well, forward.

They turn decisively from the mirror, the reflected moonlight just enough to allow them to see. Their hands come together as they consider their surroundings.

At the room’s center, a tree trunk too thick to wrap their arms around is carved with depictions of various fairy tales. There’s the mirrored wall behind them, what looks like a desk to their right, and then some sort of collapsed set-up with curtains before the closed door on their left. Experimentally, they adjust their weight to test the floorboards; besides that weak spot they’d already punched through, it feels fairly sturdy. A quick peek through the hole their foot made reveals a sharp drop with a few branches in the way.

They're in a tree house. That's not unusual — while the wealthier forest inhabitants and many businesses make their homes in stone on the ground, it isn’t uncommon for regular folk to build their homes in the trees. It certainly makes it easier to keep the raccoons out, and is often cheaper besides. More than half of every village could be found up in the canopy.

This particular building seems more like some kind of establishment than a house. That is, it seems like it _had_ been — given the dust and poor keeping of the place, they can only assume that it had been abandoned for several decades. 

They brush a hand against the carvings on the central trunk. _What happened here, I wonder?_

Memories that don't belong to them stir.

Shortly after becoming a prince of Probonough, Luka’s parents had taken him on a trip to Subcon. It was the first time he’d ever been outside of his hometown, and he had been so excited about the new sights and people that he’d had trouble sleeping the whole week before. The result was that the whole trip was a blurry, tired mess, with only two moments standing out to him.

One such moment was his meeting of the Princess Vanessa, a terribly shy girl his own age whose voice was so quiet he could barely understand her the few times she actually said anything in response to his chatter. The actual introduction didn’t stand out to him, but he could recall with perfect clarity the tiny smile she’d given him when he’d waved goodbye. It had struck his heart; he’d grinned all the way home.

He learned later that this trip was when his parents and the royals of Subcon had arranged a marriage between him and Subcon's quiet princess. But, before that fateful meeting, Luka’s parents had taken him to his first puppet show.

Little Luka had been captivated; he’d gone home and made puppets of his own, ransacking the laundry and terrorizing the seamstresses for spare socks. He’d even gotten pretty good at it, if those memories aren’t too colored with pride to be believed. Though that hobby had fallen by the wayside as he grew older and turned towards his studies, he'd always thought fondly of those years of string and stuffing.

The point is, that first puppet show had taken place in a shopfront much like this one: a desk to the side to pay for tickets, a small constructed stage, a mirror opposite the door that let the clever child sneak peeks at how the show’s effects were created in real time. The place had even had the same kind of central pillar, carved and smoothed down by a hundred children’s hands over the years.

It occurs to them that many performance spaces kept their materials in a separate room, readily available to their actors but neatly out of sight of their patrons.

Limping around the hole they’d put in the floor, they reach for the door even as they mentally snort at themself for thinking there could possibly be —

They blink.

They were right: this is where the group had kept their supplies. But the place has been _ransacked_.

It’s like a whirlwind has gone through, tugging materials and props off the shelves with abandon. Roughly ripped fabric is everywhere, the floor barely visible through forsaken fluff and patterns. The remains of a few puppets that were deemed unworthy (for what?) have been shredded for their components, bits and pieces discarded in an apparent hurry, and even the paints and brushes are left in a jumble dumped on the floor.

“What…?” Why on earth would someone loot an old puppet show venue? And why would they do so quite so _messily_?

They nudge a boot at an old clown puppet that now lacks its internal wooden skeleton — it’s no better than a hand puppet now. “Poor thing,” they murmur.

They consider just leaving, but their heart twists at the abandoned forms; they sigh in exasperation. It would feel too weird to just leave the place like this, even if it’s abandoned, and even if — judging by the dust — it happened many years ago. And if they need to go through these items anyways to find a disguise...

With a self-deprecating huff, they start to collect the debris around them and sort it into neat piles.

Like that, they find a few unrusted needles and intact bobbins of thread, as well as some buried full-size clothing that apparently didn’t interest the pillagers. They can’t think of a reason why someone would be so desperate for puppet and doll paraphernalia and show no interest in practical human clothing, but they suppose that whatever the reason, they should be grateful that the mysterious thieves left them a change of clothes.

It takes less than an hour to put the place to rights, and significantly less than that to dress. They pick out a rough but serviceable pair of pants and a pale ruffled shirt that looks like it may have once been white; they keep their boots and belt for lack of any other options. Even with time and distance from the cellar, they find that they still feel cold; with a little clever stitching, one of the dusty maroon curtains serves as a hooded cloak.

The rest of their old clothes get folded up and vanished away square by square, presumably to wherever they sent their crown earlier that evening. Hopefully they’ll be able to recover them later, should they need them. Hopefully they’ll never have need.

“Right,” they murmur as they tie back their hair with a ribbon apologetically stolen from the remains of a puppet ballerina. “What else?”

Their gaze is drawn to the set of plain masks that they had hung in the corner. It is custom for children to wear a mask when wandering the woods, a practice dating back to the time of giant spiders and worse things in the woods. Since then it’s become more of a superstition than anything, and one adults rarely follow…

But, well. If the mask fits, right?

They choose one that matches the crescent of the waning moon.

The new clothes and mask feel strange on them, and when they check their reflection in the front room, they hardly recognize the person in the mirror. They tug the cloak close anyway, feeling obvious and strange. They can see the red of their eyes even with the mask between them.

No one would look at them and see Prince Luka.

Which is the point, of course — because at this point they’ve admitted to themself what they plan on doing, and it is imperative that no one reports the presence of the prince. They can’t afford for Vanessa to find them before they can help.

Even if they aren’t Prince Luka, they remember the brightness of Subcon: fountains, children, friendly shopkeepers. Maybe the Horizon could take a more pragmatic view, but a piece of it with human memories can’t help but feel they have a duty to the people of the village.

Any person who has lost themselves in power is dangerous; Vanessa, with her magic and royal position, is more dangerous than most. The thought of her betraying or harming her people feels impossible — but then, so did the possibility she might do the same to her prince.

So: they need to speak with Subcon. And they need to find a way to keep them safe.

Still favoring their good leg, they step out onto the porch and look out at the night sky, hoping they’ll see the stars and moon again after this.

Then, square by square, they disappear back into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: fear, identity issues, grief?, physical changes resulting from canonical trauma.
> 
> 1\. huh. weird that mj has legs and a human head when they don't look like that in canon. wonder if something's gonna happen there. hm.  
> 2\. *sees a mess* ...*sighs* (THEY'RE.... SWEETHEART ;-;)  
> 3\. so we know snatcher plays the violin, and a storybook page shows that he had little dolls for the subconites to possess, and in the death wish mode art he's holding marionette controllers... SO i'm just saying the prince was always a puppet theatre kid >:) (it also opens up some fun possibilities for future interactions w snatcher in this fic ehehe)  
> 4\. me: "no research for this fic" also me: *reads about commedia dell'arte masks for 45 minutes just in case*  
> 5\. i cannot help but worldbuild. (THE TIME RIFT HAD TREE HOUSES... WHAT IF THOSE WERE LEGIT MEMORIES........)  
> 6\. snatcher next time!! :D
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: escape to a (not-at-all-suspiciously familiar) old performance space, emotional reactions to realizing you aren't who you think you are, reflections on physical differences, and an outfit change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

They reappear in reality block by block, body parts separating and coming together in ways a living being was never meant to. They _shudder_. Teleporting oneself feels distinctly inhuman and for a moment they double over, nausea threatening to overwhelm them (and how would that even work, with a technically dead body? Are they going to have to start worrying about eating at some point?). Finally, groaning at the multitude of unpleasant sensations, they manage to straighten up and get a look at their surroundings.

They had intended on landing in the woods just outside of Subcon proper. In Prince Luka’s memories there is a rustic stone fence and a cheerful sign welcoming visitors, with dappled light shining through the trees. The guards had always been more like greeters than soldiers, in his experience, so they had hoped to start discussing the potential dangers of staying here with one of them and gradually ease into talking the rest of Subcon into evacuating.

So when they are greeted not by the entrance to an idyllic village, but by a broken old sign along a dusty dirt road, their first thought is that of _course_ they managed to end up in the wrong place. It _was_ rather arrogant to believe that they could just control an unknown magical ability with no practice, even if it had worked out pretty well the first time.

They idly wrap their hands around the broken chains still hanging from their shackles, considering their next step. “Maybe a more focused effort…?”

The place _looks_ kind of similar, anyway: sure, the road isn’t very well-cared for, but it is surrounded by stones piled in a rough wall. The trees, too, are placed just like in Prince Luka’s memories. There’s even a knot in the oak on the left that he had always thought looked rather like a curled up dragon…

They step closer, brow crinkling. It looks almost _exactly_ the same, actually — there’s the dent that looks so much like a snarling snout, the twig like a tail, the haphazard branches sticking out above that, when fully leafed out, could pass for wings. The only difference is that it seems to have grown larger, the wings twice the size as their memories claim, and that the tree itself looks much sicker, its bark cracked and dry.

Some unidentifiable feeling starts to creep up their spine, pushing them onward. They shiver, pulling their cloak closer around them as they walk the path.

Though uncared for now, these walls were clearly crafted by artisan brick-layers; each stone seems to have been painstakingly shaped into blocks and carefully placed. Their shoulders tense as they approach.

There, a tangle of wild bomb-cherries, the same as those harvested by Subcon farmers, but greatly overgrown. They look away and speed up.

That weeping willow right there looks _just_ like the one that stood outside of the village’s gates. Without meaning to, they remember —

On one of the young couple’s earliest trysts, Prince Luka and Princess Vanessa had snuck out together and daringly gone beyond the village walls without a guard (or, more importantly, a chaperone). They had ducked under the protective branches of the willow tree, sweaty hand in sweaty hand, and Vanessa’s smile had been incandescent as she shyly admitted that she’d never been so far from the manor before.

Luka had then had the kind of lightning-strike idea common to all young fools in love. Just as Luka finished carving their initials into the base of the willow’s trunk the night guard had found them. At Vanessa’s naked fear, the soldier had taken pity on them: they were returned to the castle quietly, without alerting the Queen that they had ever been out. They can remember Luka’s confusion at Vanessa’s behavior, his unease and dawning understanding that something about her home life was _off_.

Now, they crouch down and place a pale blue hand where they can so clearly remember carving those initials, feeling strangely relieved that this trunk is bare.

“Of course it is,” they scoff quietly. “This isn’t the same tree. I’m probably not anywhere _near_ the right place.” The forest is silent except for their buzzing voice. It’s rather… unnerving.

They straighten up quickly, neatly brushing their clothes of dust and intent to be off at once, when a blemish just above eye level catches their notice. They glance up, away — and then, slowly, _slowly_ look back up.

Right there, several feet above where it was expected to be, is a scar carved into the trunk in the shape of the letters “L + V.”

They stare.

That’s… not possible.

“Someone else wrote those,” they say into the silence. “It’s a coincidence.”

Prince Luka never knew anything about plantlife — with his efforts in performing arts, astronomy, law, and princely duties (for a start), there simply wasn’t time for him to learn anything about flora beyond “don’t touch the poison ivy” (and even that he only learned with repeated experience). The Horizon, apparently, knows more, enough to determine that for those initials to reach that height, they would have to have been carved into the trunk _decades_ ago.

Decades which would account for the growth of bomb-cherry bushes, if left unchecked. Decades which would wear away at stone and pull down walls. Decades of a town and all its inhabitants left to the whims of a crazed magician-queen…

“No,” they say, but the unnatural vibration of their voice makes it nearly impossible to parse. Uneven rectangles and stranger shapes start to dance in their vision and the world grows hazy around them… except for the slim tunnel of clarity focused on those initials.

They had — Prince Luka had — no, this _body_ had died as a young man. They saw their face just last evening — it’d been aged by his time in the cellar, certainly, but not nearly by that much. They’re positive that he had died in his twenties. So then how…?

It occurs to them suddenly — the sign! Surely that will prove that they’re simply in the wrong place. Eagerly they stumble to the fallen-down thing, tearing at the grasses and vines that have grown over it, uncovering it bit by bit —

 _Welcome to Subcon!_ the faded paint declares.

In their hands, the sign distorts.

“Oh,” they say.

Vanessa has ice powers. She could easily keep a body, even a dead one, _pristine_ —

She could do so for years. For _decades_.

The air around them is too thin, but a Horizon Piece has no need for breath. Why should it matter if a body hyperventilates? Indeed, why should it bother with a body at all? Without one it might not _be_ , but it was never meant to. A part isn’t anything without the whole. Why even bother?

The wind whistles through dead branches; something down the path giggles. A second-hand body hunches over an old sign, shuddering.

There’s no point to it. A dead body isn’t a person. A piece of the Horizon is just pretending.

“What are they doing?” a child’s voice whispers.

Prince Luka died a long time ago, anyway. Why draw it out?

“Beats me,” says another.

It — He —

“Think Snatcher can use them?”

Strange shapes flicker in and out of their vision. They blink. What—?

“I mean, probably, right? You think we can lure them in?”

They look up.

“Oh man, go go _go_!”

Two cloaked, child-sized figures turn on their heels and _sprint_ , practically _flying_ back into the ruins of the village.

The person left behind gapes.

“H-hey,” they say, more startled than anything else. How can there be people…?

Reality around them calms down as their brain puzzles over this — and then unreality _spikes_ as they realize: there are _still people_.

“Hey — hey!! Wait!”

They scramble to their feet; pain shoots through their injured leg, an anchor to this reality, and they grit their teeth because _there are children, so there must be others too, there were survivors, I can still do something for them_ —!! Fighting against the still-present urge to just _let go_ they give chase, running pell-mell past the old gates and into Subcon itself, trailing neat little unreal squares behind them.

Luka visited Subcon many times over the years. Beyond feeling it was his royal duty to get to know the people and land that he would one day serve, he practically grew up here between royal events and monthly visits. Every corner has its memories, bright and bustling and filled with chatter and laughter.

Running through it now they try to stay in the present, but those same memories lurk in town corners that have since gone dark. It’s _awful_ — the whole place is iced over, the ambient air so cold they can see their own breath coming out in sharp pants, and for a moment they swear they can see the forms of actual _people_ in the ice, people they once _knew_ — they’re too late, it’s _too late_ , why bother —

Laughter echoes back to them and they snap back into focus — _pull yourself together!_ There’s no time to think of what once was the butcher’s shop when now, _right now_ , they’ve nearly caught up to the little running figures. “Wait!! Please, I beg you, wait—!” 

The children are less than a foot away, practically in their grasp; triumph raises its head and they put on a final burst of speed, reaching out with a “ha—!”

And with a _thwip_ , the hidden burlap sack knocks their feet out from under them and swallows them up, unceremoniously yanking the piece of the Horizon in the body of literal royalty into the sky.

They yelp, and then bounce there for a long moment, too shocked to do much else.

“...What,” they say. And then, “... _what_.”

Pressed against their cheek, the burlap flattens their nose beneath the mask and smells strongly of dirt. Their legs have ended up above their head, where even the slightest movement digs the knee of their already-damaged leg into their face. Any attempt to remedy the uncomfortable pressure on their shoulders and neck sends the whole sack swinging dizzyingly.

It’s possible they have just been kidnapped.

“This,” they say, and finally just give up and _groan_ , long and exhausted. Do dead body hijackers need to sleep? Honestly, a long nap is sounding more and more appealing.

They hang there for a moment longer, feeling stupid and sorry for themself. Finally, they sigh — there’s no use to just _waiting_ here silently — and clear their throat. “Excuse me! Ah, young ones? Are you still there?”

There’s no reply but the creak of tree branches.

Which, _of course_ there isn’t — their memories of Subcon are out of date. Who knows what could have happened to this place in the intervening years? Perhaps laid traps and fleeing from strangers is the smartest survival strategy right now.

Still, it can’t hurt to reassure them that they meant no harm, can it?

“Please, forgive me,” they shout in the darkness of their sack prison, hoping the children are still somewhere nearby. “I didn’t mean to scare you! I thought this place empty until I saw you, and when you ran, I feared I would lose my one chance at speaking with a living being.”

They hold their breath, waiting, but even the wind has died down. Wriggling in discomfort both physical and social, they press on.

“I — I knew this place, once, a long time ago. I don’t know exactly what happened here—” the broken sign, the overgrown forest, the pillars of ice encasing the buildings and roads Luka had a duty to — “but this isn’t a safe place to stay any longer. There’s something, something—” Vanessa’s first uncertain smiles, the golden sun in her hair, the absolute trust with which she followed him out past curfew that one evening so many, many years ago — “... there’s something _evil_ that lives in this place.”

The hoisted bag barely sways, but wind starts to clack through the branches. They have to raise their voice to be heard. “ _Please_ , if you want to live—” frozen fingers, hunger pains, magic-red eyes — “you _can’t stay here_!”

Their eyes sting, and they squeeze them shut in frustration — they’re here to fulfill a duty Prince Luka never got to, not to get swept up in emotions they have no right to. They twist in their bag to scrub at the face they’ve stolen as the clacking of branches gets louder around them.

And louder still. The wind must be tearing through the forest to make such a noise, they think, but somehow the trap they hang from is unaffected.

Their spine prickles with sudden unease. They can feel no wind, even through the burlap’s wide weave, but the sound grows, carrying with it an unnatural echo and a shrillness that could be likened to a scream.

“ _Haha… hahaha… ahaha!_ ” it seems to laugh, and with a bolt of terror they realize that it _is_ laughter, bitter and deranged and darkly amused.

“HAHAHA… AHAHAHAHHHHH!! You _fool_!”

The trap holding them _snaps_ , and they gasp in panic as gravity yanks them down, down, to smack to the hard earth with a solid _whumph_ that drives all the air from their lungs in a painful wheeze. They scramble away as fast as they can, shoving aside their sliced-open prison, but as soon as they can see clearly their whole body freezes with fright.

The being floating there is dark and strange, formed of twisting shadow and eerie flashes of colored light. Its eyes are huge and luminous, gleaming with cruel intention, and a vicious mouth filled with fangs _snarls_ at the trembling being that stepped into its trap.

“No living thing dares enter in my forest,” it says in a deep, rasping voice. The prey before them shudders — it has the voice of nightmares, the kind of voice that many years ago would send a young Luka running for his parents. But now, there’s no one here to save them, no one around to help.

“And newsflash,” the shadowy monster hisses, leaning down into their space, awful eyes alight with malice. “The only evil thing in this forest… is _me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: description of nausea, reference to abuse, realizing you're Much Too Late to Save Anyone, dissociation, panic attack, the desire to "let go" of existence, preservation of dead bodies, results of a "natural" (magical actually) disaster, being trapped 
> 
> 1\. haha, "no one is around to help" lmao. i luv to be dumb :)  
> 2\. so it's been DECADES since the prince died -- which means that puppet place they went to last chapter probably WAS the very same one they remembered visiting. snatcher's had the chance to establish himself and mj has missed out on a lot. i'm excited for them to deal with that, and also just RLY excited that snatcher and mj have finally met. fun stuff is ahead!  
> 3\. next chapter i'm hoping to give you guys one more big-ish reveal. i rly hope u like it ahhhh. i'm ALSO hoping that mj will finally name themself lol - not having a proper name is starting to get a little annoying to write around, haaa.  
> 4\. all i wanna think about is the tragedy that is vanessa and luka... childhood friends who thought they might be each others' happily ever afters, but then it goes so wrong... in the game snatcher still refers to her as his 'soulmate!' like, bud. ur making me SO sad.  
> 5\. i get no small amount of joy making mj talk like a total dweeb, especially in contrast to snatcher. i mean, the prince genuinely rly liked studying law -- u can't tell me he wasn't an absolute dork.
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: it's much, much too late to save Subcon... but it's hard to worry about that when you're being attacked by a laughing, shadowy monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

“The only evil thing in this forest is _me_.”

The being possessing the body of the prince barely has time to flinch before their shadowy attacker rears back and _strikes_.

They’re knocked flat on their back with enough force to clack their teeth together. Flinging their arms over their head and curling up tight, they tense against the blows they’re expecting and just hope that whatever this thing is gets it over with more quickly than Vanessa did.

“...Ah,” the monstrous voice rasps. “This doesn’t usually happen to me. Let me just —”

Strange, hot hands land on their shoulders and they jerk back with a yelp — at which their attacker _scoffs_.

“Listen, just stay still for a second, this shouldn’t hurt — probably—”

 _What?_ The hands come down on their shoulders again, firm, and their attacker gives them a brief squeeze.

“...Hm,” it says, sounding displeased.

Cautiously, certain that the thing will lash out at them if they so much as move wrong, they peek open an eye.

The figure before them is no less fearsome up close, with its searchlight-bright eyes and viper-like fangs on clear display, but… it is, perhaps, less _personally_ scary than they had first thought. For one thing, it isn’t actually made of twisting, hungry shadows, like what Vanessa’s magic had made of her; instead it’s just _dark_ , like it’s somehow absorbing the light that strikes it rather than repelling it entirely. It’s solid, too, if the hands on their shoulders are anything to go by, and giving off a heat that’s almost… pleasant, reminding them of both cozy fireplaces and the fact that, even hours after leaving the cellar, they still feel cold.

It’s also knelt down in front of them looking _quite_ humanoid, with clear shoulders and arms. It — rather, _his_ head still seems somewhat off, like his form is unfinished, and they can’t quite get a read on any specific features… except, weirdly, the forked tongue clenched carefully between sharp teeth and the irked expression on his face.

“Come on, what gives?” he murmurs, apparently to himself. His raspy voice echoes weirdly in the space between them and he looks not at their eyes, but roughly level with their heart. “I should have it by now. I know you’ve got one — even if it _is_ freaky-looking.”

Well that’s rather offensive, even if they have no idea what he’s talking about. They reflect, perhaps a tad bit hysterically, that Prince Luka’s etiquette classes never went over this particular type of situation.

“Hey Snatcher!”

The voice jerks their attention to the left, where — the children! Both of them peek out from behind a pair of stumps, safe and sound. Their relief quickly turns to dread, though — if the young ones don’t keep quiet they might draw the attention of this dark attacker. Panicking, they open their mouth to say something, _anything_ to keep his focus on them and not the children — when he loudly snaps, “ _What_! Can’t you see I’m busy??”

They blink bemusedly at that — and then _gape_ when one of the children replies, “Yeah, but we wanna loot the body _now_! Haven’t you finished taking their soul yet?”

“W- _what_ ,” they stutter, and unthinkingly bat away the guy’s — _Snatcher’s_ hands, scrambling away til they can stumble to their feet.

“Hey,” Snatcher complains, rising to his own — and _morphing_ as he does so, shedding the shape of humanity for something sleeker, pointier, and significantly more dangerous-looking. “There’s no need to be _rude_.”

“ _Me_??” they exclaim, patting down their body with a jingle of chains like somehow that will verify that they’re still whole. “ _You_ were trying to _steal my soul_!”

“Yeah, and you were making it _really difficult_ ,” Snatcher replies, giving off the vibe that he’s cocking a hip in disapproval despite not presently _having_ hips. “I can tell your body’s already dead, so it should have been simple. What’s the big idea, kid?”

“I,” they say, pulling themself up to their full height, and then hesitate. What are they supposed to say? Souls linger for a time after death, but not for decades — there’s no way that they have this body’s original soul. No, whatever they have masquerading as one now must be a result of Horizon nonsense. That, on top of a body that’s apparently recognizable as… _deceased_ (and is it really that noticeable? Even looking in the mirror last night, they didn’t think they looked _dead_ ), has them wincing beneath their mask — no wonder this Snatcher person thought they were unnatural.

But they shake their head sharply to dismiss those thoughts — they’re here to _help Subcon_ , not navel-gaze, and they’ve wasted too much time already. Clasping their hands together and putting on Prince Luka’s most authoritative voice, they address the coiled, inhuman Snatcher.

“You have no right to take the soul of another living being. Or, or a dead one,” they falter, but square their shoulders and press on. “This land doesn’t belong to you and it is unlawful for you to claim it. In addition, you have, ah, have clearly influenced these children in a negative manner, and I… I _demand_ you relinquish your hold on them and, and apologize at, ah, at _once_.”

They consider stomping their foot for emphasis, but their bad leg seems to have been injured further in their fall and they definitely don’t want to risk looking weak now. Instead they stand firm, head high and chin up, thinking _closing statement_ and _princely bearing_ and _oh goodness am I really trying to speak LAW to a MONSTER I thought I wanted to KEEP EXISTING what am I DOING_.

For a moment, the path is quiet in the wake of their words.

Then, Snatcher inhales a great gasp of air and _laughs_ , a hoarse, raucous sound, so loud that they think it may genuinely rattle their bones. They step back instinctively, baffled and frightened, and then realize that there’s more than an unnatural echo to it: glancing behind them, they see that the two children are laughing, too, having collapsed against each other in an attempt to stay standing through their mirth.

“I,” they say, and can’t think of a follow-up. So for a terribly long moment, they just… stand there, being jeered and laughed at, wondering whether their body can blush and, if so, why they still feel so cold.

Finally, Snatcher wipes a tear from one of his lantern eyes. “HA! Wow, kid, I haven’t heard a joke like that in _years_. Where am I even supposed to begin? Hm…” He taps a clawed paw (no longer a hand — what kind of being has that kind of shapeshifting ability, anyway?) to his nonexistent lips. “How about this: _those_ aren’t really children. Not anymore, at least.”

There’s a slight tug at their cloak, and they look down to find that the two small figures have approached. One paws at their cloak, looking for pockets, while the other puts its hands behind its back, beaming up at them.

Their jaw drops. They hadn’t been close enough before, had thought it a trick of the light — but neither of these children have faces, just empty hoods filled with gleaming light not dissimilar to Snatcher’s eyes and mouth. _Bound ghosts_ , they realize, horrified.

“And even if they were living children at some point, they bound themselves to those forms willingly,” Snatcher continues. “After all, it can be pretty frustrating to have no ability to affect one’s circumstances — trust me, I should know. My ‘influence,’ as you call it, extended only to giving them a choice.”

Besides the cut of their dark cloak, the little ghost that had been going through their pockets has absolutely no distinguishing features at all; they could switch places with their little friend and no one would notice. “Do you have any gold?” it asks.

“Ah,” says the thing that used to be Prince Luka. Their voice sounds hollow, even to them. “I’m sorry, I do not.” Except they do, don’t they? With a thought, they could pull out his crown, the symbol of Prince Luka’s duty to the people of Subcon. They could give it away right now.

“In addition,” Snatcher says, mocking their crisp diction with surprising accuracy, “this forest _is_ mine, and I do mean _legally_. No living thing has claimed the town for itself in nearly fifty years — and I’ve been here since before then. Ergo, by squatters’ rights, this place is _mine_.”

Fifty years — _fifty years_?

The world feels strange around them, four-sided shapes snapping up and away from their skin. The ice, the overgrown flora, the little ghosts who now peer up at them with curiosity — they missed their chance to help Subcon by _half a century_?

Snatcher ignores them, apparently caught up in his own theatrics. He spins idly in the air like he hasn’t a care in the world. “And finally: _I_ can do whatever I want with any soul I find, and so can anyone else, kid, because _life isn’t fair_.” Reality, a moment ago threatening to break down around them, abruptly goes still as their gaze snaps to Snatcher, who doesn’t even notice. “The strong have power over the weak — that’s just a basic law of the universe. The fact is that _I’m_ the one who controls this place, so what I say goes. And if I want to eat the soul of every living thing foolish enough to enter my forest, well, then that’s just what I’m going to do.

“Besides,” he says, “wasn’t it you who said this wasn’t a safe place to live? A soul has a lot of power, and I need as much of that as I can get if I want to keep existing in this _dangerous forest_. Or doesn’t your oh-so-just philosophy think I deserve to?”

That stings, actually. Luka had never quite grown out of the belief that “maybe, if we just try hard enough, everyone could get along” — a sentiment that had frustrated his old tutor to no small degree, and made negotiating land laws a bit of a challenge. It was part of the reason for his interest in law, actually, because he’d thought that surely somewhere in all those books he’d be able to find _the answer_ , the secret code of conduct to make sure that even after the worst, most vicious disagreements, a compromise could be found and everyone could go home _content_.

Of course, they know now that compromise wasn’t always the right answer. Sometimes “compromise” meant locking someone in a basement to deal with petty jealousies. Sometimes it meant smiling and agreeing with something disagreeable because the alternative was much more unpleasant. When one party did not have the best interests of the other in mind, compromise could be _disastrous_ — such as, apparently, the theft of innocent souls so one could have a place to call their own.

But was that really fair? Snatcher’s point about squatters’ rights is, technically, correct. If Subcon was iced over so long ago, if Vanessa’s presence in the manor is such a threat to the living, if Snatcher feels the need to defend his territory from trespassers and simultaneously gain a boost of power that allowed him to keep his home… are they really in a position to judge?

Especially considering their own last-minute “compromise”: stealing the body, face, and memories of someone who’d never be able to consent, just because they were too scared of the alternative, too curious to let the story go unfinished.

And besides, something that Snatcher had said stands out to them: _life isn’t fair_.

It’s true, of course — even as a child, Luka had seen enough of the differences between his ornate childhood home and the treehouses in surrounding towns to recognize that. It had only galvanized him as a young man to do good whenever he could. But it’d taken him longer to realize that there were those who used “life isn’t fair” as an excuse to hurt others, and longer still to recognize what they all had in common.

Every single one of them — from the childhood tutors to the bullying guards to the rare meeting with the original queen of Subcon — had themselves faced something awful and difficult in their own lives. Often, they were still going through it. In Luka’s admittedly limited experience: those who hurt others usually only did so because of the pain _they_ were experiencing.

So they look at Snatcher, floating there with a smirking mouth and ghost-bright eyes, and the remains of the village they could never have saved, and the bound spirits playing between them.

“You’re right,” they say.

“That’s _exactly_ what I thought you’d say, so you’ll have to forgive me for killing youuuuu— hang on a minute,” says Snatcher, pausing mid-way through throwing open his arms in attack. “What?”

“You’re right,” they repeat, nervously tugging on the shackles still around their wrists. “Subcon has been gone a long time, and I have no right to command you in your own home. I disagree with your… soul-eating, but it is not my place to judge you for it, so… I apologize. Please forgive my impudence.”

A semi-formal apology generally calls for a polite bow, but they’re not too fond of the idea of making themself physically vulnerable to a strange possibly-a-ghost who had attacked them not too long ago. Instead they incline their head as respectfully as they can and keep their eyes on Snatcher.

Snatcher stares back with an expression of total disbelief.

One of the little bound ghosts suddenly giggles. “I think you broke him,” they whisper.

Snatcher’s mouth shuts with an audible _click_ they can hear from here, and even as he scowls at the tittering ghosts he still looks a bit flustered. “Well! I guess you’re even stupider than you look, if you believe that nonsense,” he scoffs, crossing his arms and refusing to make eye contact. “Don’t let fancy words make you forget that I _was_ trying to steal your soul, kid. What, were you born yesterday or something?”

They mean to reply, but to their shock the only thing that comes out of their mouth is a loud, dry, “ha!”

They cover their mouth, self-conscious and startled, but the situation suddenly seems so ridiculous: all of time and existence reduced to an oxymoronic _piece_ of the whole Horizon, memories of a whole life they never actually lived, a gap of _fifty years_ between their last memory and this, the longest night anyone’s ever had… All that and, yes, one could argue that they really were just born yesterday.

The laugh spills out between their blue hands, starting out stifled, but they can’t control it for long. It builds, peel upon peel, til it fills the forest, loud and full and nearly unhinged enough that one might mistake it for Snatcher’s. They couldn’t stop it even if they wanted to, and they find that they _don’t_ — somehow laughing, really laughing, makes them feel more like themself than they have… well, ever.

They couldn’t say how long it’s been since Luka truly laughed, but they do suddenly recall a moment when they thought they were still the Horizon, not yet a piece. They had been falling past the moon just as they listened to that silly lullaby, the one Luka’s mother would later make him sing, and when they had laughed at that it was joyous and new. It was then that they realized that, quite without noticing, they had _become_ something, something separate and individual and all its own.

So they laugh, long and loud, and perhaps need to wipe a few tears away by the time their laughter finally starts to ebb.

Despite the lack of faces, the bound ghosts exchange clearly readable looks with one another. Snatcher’s lantern eyes are round with surprise.

“...Well!” he finally announces over their fading chuckles. “You’ve certainly got a set on you, and I don’t just mean lungs. Walking into _my_ forest, refusing to give up the soul that _should_ belong to me, telling me off in my own home, and then _laughing in my face_. I gotta ask, kid,” he says, leaning in close, giving off the vibe of having one eyebrow critically raised. “Just who do you think you are?”

 _That_ nearly sets them off again, but they choke the laughter off with a cough, considering. They’re not quite Prince Luka, not quite the Horizon — what do they even know about themself, besides lullabies and borrowed identities and looking up at the crescent in the night sky, remembering falling past and becoming?

Beneath the mask, they grin — it’s a little wry, but it’s genuine. “Honestly, I’m not sure who I am,” they say, and stick out a hand for Snatcher to shake. “But I think you can call me the Moonjumper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: a soul's shape is commented on and possibly insulted?, bad self esteem, realizing what you thought were children are actually the dead, uncertainty about physical appearance, being decades too late to help, canon-typical meanness & murder threats
> 
> 1\. i've been looking forward to writing that laugh since chapter 1!! :) moonjumper!!!!!!!!  
> 2\. snatcher, sir... you're So rude. also, when do you think the last time anyone apologized to him was? probably a rly long time ago, huh.  
> 3\. to be clear: do i think that mainly people who have been hurt, hurt others? yea, p much. do i think that makes it ok?? NO LOL. does mj think that maybe that makes it ok...? listen, the whole point of this fic is the JOURNEY, man  
> 4\. mj: "i'm not here to navel-gaze" me: nervously shoves the reasons i'm writing this fic under the couch  
> 5\. i've changed the name of Luka's hometown from Uncon (easy, lazy, placeholder) to Probonough (objectively funnier, maybe a little sad, can be pronounced to rhyme with "oh no")  
> 6\. this chapter sets the tone for the rest of snatcher's n mj's rship, so i thought about holding onto it a bit to make sure i got the tone right... but getting it Perfect isn't the point of my writing this fic, getting it Out is, so. here we are!! maybe i'll futz w it later?  
> 7\. ALSO!!! at this point i was expecting to be a third of the way through this fic, but it keeps streeeeeeetching, send help D: the 'reveal' i mentioned in the last chapter's notes has kind of been folded into the rest of the fic, so just... don't worry about it guys. everything's totally fine  
> 8\. also ALSO: uh, ur comments absolutely delight me jkjsdfkdsj. i'm glad you all are enjoying this thing along with me :)
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: a soul was not snatched, some knowledge about Subcon was updated, and after a good long laugh Moonjumper finally picked a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

Snatcher stares at their hand, expression unreadable, for long enough to be uncomfortable.

Just as they’re considering taking their hand back and finding a ditch to throw themself in, Snatcher finally laughs, short and loud. “ _Moonjumper_? That’s a terrible name,” he says, but he smiles and extends a two-fingered paw.

 _Rude!_ Moonjumper grits their teeth but keeps the smile through sheer force of will. “Isn’t your name ‘Snatcher’?”

Snatcher snorts, glancing up at Moonjumper’s face. Even before their hands touch, Moonjumper can feel the heat radiating off his palm. “Yeah, but it’s not like I picked — oh — _no!_ ”

Snatcher leaps back like he’s been burned, face twisting in a snarl, and Moonjumper spins around, the Horizon humming hard in their chest. Are they under attack?

There’s nothing besides the iced-over town. “What—?”

“Your eyes — you’re _magic_ ,” Snatcher hisses, and Moonjumper turns to see that the being they were just companionably speaking with has lost any semblance of humanity. Snatcher hovers ten feet from the ground, his body coiled, snake-like, ready to strike, claws and teeth flashing as he glares — directly at Moonjumper.

“I — ah,” Moonjumper starts, trying to catch up, but Snatcher doesn’t let them.

“I should have known, with a soul like that,” he growls. “You two!”

The two little bound ghosts who were quietly edging away from Moonjumper now jump to attention. “Yes boss!”

“Get the others, bring as many cherries as you can,” he barks at them, and they salute and speed off into the village.

“Ah, I, I’m sorry,” Moonjumper tries, flustered, and Snatcher whirls on him, furious.

“For _what_ , getting caught?” he growls. “You thought you could just waltz into _my_ forest without consequences? This place is under my protection; you have no right to interfere with _any part_ of it.”

“I don’t intend to!” Moonjumper protests, waving their hands in a bit of a panic. This has all gone rather wrong rather quickly, but they can’t exactly stop their red eyes from displaying the magic that now runs through this body.

“ _Any_ part of it,” Snatcher snaps, the darkness of his form roiling. “ _Including_ the manor.”

“Of course, I would never—” their voice gives out part way through. “I— the manor?”

Snatcher coils even tighter, baring his fangs. “You _stay away from there._ She’s under _my_ protection.”

“ _She_?” Moonjumper quotes, numbly.

“Boss!”

They both look to see dozens of little bound ghosts speeding down the path, many of them carrying bomb-cherries.

“I don’t understand,” Moonjumper says.

“Then let me make it clear,” Snatcher hisses. “Leave, or we’ll find out what happens when your dead body dies _again_. And tell Probonough to stop sending assassins — they obviously aren’t welcome here.”

“Probonough?” they echo.

The bound ghosts are rapidly approaching. “You heard me. Now _go._ ” Snatcher tenses, poised to strike. “Get lost!”

“But I—”

“ _Leave!!_ ” Snatcher roars, and Moonjumper barely avoids his attack — they can feel the heat from his body as they dodge clumsily out of the way and stumble into a run.

Subcon passes in a blur of ice and stone. They’re past the broken sign, past the willow, past the overgrown bomb-cherry bushes and quite a ways down the path before they even think to slow down.

No one has followed them. The forest is silent around them; even they themself barely make a sound, their breath still even despite the sprint. Nor is their body tired, or hungry, or in any pain besides their injured leg, which itself throbs more gently than it ought to after being run on like that.

They walk past the oak with the dragon-shaped knot and pull their cloak close around them as, slowly, the sky starts to lighten.

Subcon is frozen over, its people fifty years dead. The place is home now to at least two bound ghosts as well as a strange, laughing creature that eats the souls of anyone who dares enter the town. Vanessa is still in the manor, still formed of magic and shadow. Snatcher knows about her and is willing to attack others in her defense. Prince Luka died a long, long time ago.

So… where does that leave Moonjumper?

They walk the path as the early dawn becomes morning and morning gives way to early afternoon. No one else is on the road, though around midday it does start to look a little better maintained. It warms up; animals start to appear in the forest, which flee as soon as they see Moonjumper. Every so often, they spot a treehouse set back in the woods.

It’s half a day’s walk to Probonough. The gates are unguarded when they arrive an hour or two past noon; they walk right in.

It’s different than Luka remembers. The shop fronts have changed, of course, and many buildings have new faces and embellishments. But fifty years has altered the feel of the town, too: what once was a tight-knit community has grown into something closer to a city, with people bustling about and unfamiliar faces everywhere.

After hours of walking that feel like no time at all, they finally come to a stop in front of the mansion.

It almost looks the same. Its bricks are still painted a stately blue, though the ivy clinging to it has thickened and the whole place has been neatly gated off with a black fence. People dressed in formalwear bustle in and out, talking quickly and carrying bundles of neatly tied scrolls.

“You’re allowed to go in, you know,” says an amused voice.

They jump, startled, and turn to find a rather tall older woman with faded red hair smiling at them, her wrinkled eyes twinkling. “The town hall, I mean. You can go inside.”

“The town…?” Their throat closes up as they look back at the mansion. So no one lives there anymore.

The woman watches them for a moment. Finally, eyes soft, she places a gentle hand on their shoulder and directs them towards the small outdoor cafe on the other side of the street. “Come sit, stranger. I’ll make you a late lunch.”

They have to clear their throat before they can manage a reply. “I’m sorry, I can’t — I don’t have any money.”

She waves a hand, dismissive, and firmly guides them into an empty seat. “Consider it a gift for _me_ — I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t at least make you a sandwich. Relax, I’ll bring out some tea.”

They sit there, fiddling with their shackles and staring at the busy town hall, til she comes back with a pot of hot tea and a plate of sandwiches. She waves them off when they stand to pull the chair out for her, pressing a teacup into their hands and insisting they “look much too pale, have a drink before you pass out.”

Obediently they fill both cups with steaming tea. As they wrap their hands around the teacup, warmth sinks into their palms and the fragrance of black tea with something floral wafts over them. They take a sip; the taste is light and a bit bitter without sugar. They find themself relaxing into it at once.

“I hope you like breakfast leftovers, because they cleaned me out of lunch today,” the woman says, jerking a chin at the town hall. “Bacon sandwiches should fill you up good, though.”

They blink at the tray of their favorite kind of sandwiches, then laugh, shaking their head with a smile. “That’s perfect, thank you. You’re really being quite kind; there was no need for you to go to any trouble.”

She scoffs, smiling back at them. “No trouble, really. Besides, I was curious — I see strangers everyday waiting outside that place, but none look much like you.” They pull back the blue hand that was reaching for a sandwich, nervously twitching their cloak closer, and she again waves a dismissive hand. “You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to. I just wanted to know a little about the kind of person who wears a traditional mask around town, that’s all. But we don’t have to talk about it.” She selects a sandwich of her own and takes an _enormous_ bite, chewing extremely slowly.

A smile twitches their lips. “Where I’m from, they… used to be pretty common,” they say, picking a sandwich of their own.

She swallows. “Mhm. And where did you say you were from again?”

 _An unfathomable, unreachable timespace. And/or here,_ they think wryly. “A far away land. But I just came from Subcon.”

The woman sets her cup down and whistles lowly. “That _is_ interesting. No one goes to Subcon these days.”

“Yes. Please,” they say, seized by the sudden desire to _understand_ , to learn what they’ve missed in the past fifty years. “Subcon — can you tell me what happened there?”

The old woman sighs into her cup, face suddenly tired, and they immediately wince and move to backpedal and excuse themself, but —

“I suppose I know a little more than most do, these days. Eat up, will you? And have some more tea, it’s good for you. Now, where to start…”

***

Once upon a time, the neighboring kingdoms of Subcon and Probonough came to an agreement. Probonough was strong and wealthy, but due to its youth had little esteem in the surrounding towns. Subcon was venerable and greatly respected, being home to one of the most magically talented royal families in all the land, but was low on gold and resources. Together, it was decided, their kingdoms would prosper better than alone. And so, the prince of Probonough and the princess of Subcon were to be wed.

Now, Prince Luka was greatly beloved by the peoples of Probonough and Subcon both. He was kind and just, striving to do good for everyone he met, from the burliest soldier to the tiniest urchin. He cared for all equally, going so far as to split his time between both towns so as to get to know every one of his subjects as well as the next. I met him myself, you know, when I was just a girl and he a few years older; he listened attentively while I chattered on about my playmates and lessons, and I only knew who he was when Probonough's queen herself called him away. I was mortified, of course, and when I met him again some months later prayed he had forgotten me — but he not only remembered my name, he asked about my lessons in detail, too. He was truly, genuinely kind… and quite handsome, to boot.

_(A startled knee jerks, banging against the underside of the table, but the old woman continues as if she were uninterrupted.)_

So you see, Prince Luka was a very special young man. Princess Vanessa, though… Probonough never met her. She stayed in Subcon, where word was that she was loved dearly, but… it seems so unlikely, with what we know now. All we knew of her then was that she made the prince very, very happy, and for us that was good enough.

Determined to be a just and honest ruler, our Prince Luka spent his young adulthood in deep study of academics and law. He even went to university for it, though both kingdoms missed him greatly. None more greatly, it was said, than Princess Vanessa herself, who exchanged letters with him nearly every day, keeping tabs on her betrothed. Our Luka dutifully kept up with her and with his hometown; he would do anything for those he loved.

It came to pass that, but for the final exam, Prince Luka’s studies were nearly completed. He was given the weekend off and wrote at once to his princess, and it was decided that he would visit her at her home in Subcon. He packed his bag, said goodbye to his old tutor, and set off into the wood.

And for a time, that is where we thought he perished. He never returned after that weekend, you see, and when we reached out to the queen of Subcon, it was Vanessa who replied that Prince Luka had not returned for her.

Probonough was in an uproar. Our king and queen took Queen Vanessa at her word and had the forests between Subcon and the university searched. The whole town came out for it; myself, I can remember sneaking out against my parents' wishes to do what little I could as a young maiden. For weeks, we searched far and wide, desperate to bring our prince home.

It was actually my family that first learned of Queen Vanessa’s deception. You see, my older sister had found an apprenticeship at a famous florist in Subcon and had begged my parents to let her go. After months of pleading, they agreed — provided she write home as often as possible. As soon as we heard the prince was missing I had written to her, for she was always able to find the words to bring me comfort. So, when she wrote back, naturally it was I who ripped open the letter and first learned that my sister had spoken with Prince Luka herself at the florist’s shop the very same weekend that he had supposedly never reached Subcon.

My family was in disbelief, but we did what anyone else would do: we notified our king and queen, delivering the letter directly to them.

They did not want to believe. Peaceful envoys were sent to Subcon... and the next day were returned, turned away by Queen Vanessa herself. Less peaceful envoys were turned away, too, and less peaceful ones still, and eventually the people of Subcon learned that our suspicions about our dear Prince Luka lay with their queen.

For weeks, our armies met on the path between our towns. It seemed to be shaping up to be an all-out war; Probonough was preparing accordingly when, one day, Subcon’s armies failed to appeared. No one was there to block our soldiers’ advance, so they marched onwards, hopeful that Queen Vanessa had come to her senses and that Prince Luka would be returned to us, safe and sound.

Instead, those soldiers found that all of Subcon had been frozen over. Magical ice covered every bit of the town, from the royal manor on the hill to the outermost treehouses. It seemed that no one had survived… except for one person, sobbing in the center of town.

It was Queen Vanessa. The young queen had clearly succumbed to her magic. She had destroyed her kingdom and likely destroyed ours, too, for our royal family had no heir besides Prince Luka. She could not be allowed to continue.

So our soldiers stepped forward to end the wicked queen… and were stopped by a dark figure, floating before her and blocking their way.

Nothing like it had ever been seen before, so none of the soldiers were sure what to do. One of them with a small amount of magic volunteered to confront it… and without saying a word, the evil thing killed him.

Now, soldiers are used to death. There is something noble in sacrifice, or so they say. But what that beast did next was unfathomable to them: it reached its terrible hands into their dead compatriot’s chest, pulled out their friend’s soul, and _ate it._

The soldiers ran. It is said the evil thing’s laugh followed them all the way back to Probonough.

The king and queen tried many times after that to send soldiers and magicians to Subcon to destroy the wicked queen once and for all. But each time they were turned away or destroyed by that terrible creature before they could get close, and each time it would laugh as it grew more and still more powerful.

Over the years, Probonough sent fewer and fewer agents, until at last they never sent another. Subcon, it is said, has melted a little with the passing years, but few who pass through live to tell the tale. Those that do speak fearfully of the snatcher of souls that lurks in the forest around that frozen town.

Without the warmth of Prince Luka in their lives, the king and queen grew withdrawn; they stepped down from their positions as royals, gave their home to the town, and lived quietly for the rest of their natural lives. They’re buried together behind the statehouse, along with an empty plot and stone erected for their missing son, the prince they never stopped hoping would come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: grief, maybe; fairy tale about kidnapping, war, and death
> 
> 1\. aw man. that hurted  
> 2\. the good news is things get silly again next chapter! we just needed a little bit more explanation for what had happened, and it occurred to me that there was NO WAY snatcher himself would share. so: home, and a fairy tale.  
> 3\. also i've been thinking lots about Hat Kid... she won't show up for like soooooo long ugh. but i have neat stuff for when she does :)
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Snatcher snatched back the hand of friendship upon realizing Moonjumper was magical; unsure where else to go, they walked to Luka's old hometown where they were told the tale of Subcon's Ice Queen and her soul-snatching pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

Moonjumper rematerializes in the center of Subcon Village, gathers themself and their nerve, and yells as loud as they can.

“Snatcher!”

Their voice echoes off the ice and through the woods; they half expect birds to take flight, but the forest is empty of life.

“Snatcher, I’m here to talk!”

No one answers. Moonjumper scowls — they don’t want to have to lie, but they _need_ to talk with him. “Listen, if you don’t come out and talk things through with me then I’ll have no choice but to go up to the manor!”

They pause, listening, and — there! A rustling, behind the frozen fountain. They keep their eyes on it and try once more. “Alright, I suppose I’ll just head up there now…” Feeling a little silly, they take a few exaggeratedly loud steps, watching and hoping —

“Okay, okay, we’ll go get him! Jeeze,” comes an unexpectedly high voice from a completely different direction. Moonjumper turns, startled, to see a pair of little cloaked ghosts appear from around a corner that had been silent just a second ago. “Just wait here, alright?”

“A-ah, thank you!” Moonjumper stutters, and the two speed off, hovering over the ground and leaving them alone in the village center.

They stand there awkwardly and fiddle with the chains of their shackles, feeling… rather embarrassed, actually. Did they really think that they could just show up out of nowhere, shouting and making demands, and Snatcher would just _be_ here, waiting for them in a thematically appropriate location? Luka always did have a bit of a flair for the dramatic, but that shouldn’t mean that _they_ do… should it?

They cringe, pinching the bridge of their nose through their mask. They _aren’t_ him, they _know_ that, but it’s really difficult not to _think_ of themself as him. Two and a half decades of behavioral patterns and preferences are seared into the brain that they’ve borrowed and they have no idea if they should even _want_ to get rid of them, much less if it’s possible.

“Maybe I _should_ have just let myself stop existing,” they mutter sourly — it certainly would have been easier.

“You can do that?” a young voice asks and Moonjumper just about leaps out of their borrowed skin.

Another little bound ghost has appeared at their feet (or… possibly it’s the _same_ bound ghost?). It looks up at them, head tilted in curiosity. Moonjumper blinks down at it, perplexed, til they belatedly realize it’s waiting for their answer. “Ah. Um. Maybe?”

“Dude, awesome,” it says, cloak wrinkling in a way that could be read as a _smile_. “We’re all stuck til Snatcher remembers enough.”

“Don’t talk to them!” a different voice hisses, and yet another bound ghost appears from behind the fountain Moonjumper had been watching earlier. “Snatcher said they could destroy us with their magic!”

“Ah,” says Moonjumper, but the ghost before them scoffs.

“You seriously think this guy can destroy anything? Did you not see them, like, crying over how embarrassing they were a second ago?”

“I— I wasn’t _crying_ ,” Moonjumper protests, bewildered at the undue impertinence, and _another_ bound ghost pops up from behind a broken statue with one cloaked little fist set right under where its chin might be.

“I dunno, it kinda looked like it from over here,” they say, sounding smug.

“You guys are being _mean_ ,” says another, floating out through a broken window frame. “It’s okay, Mr. Moonjumper, _I_ know you weren’t crying. By the way, is ‘mister’ okay to use for you?”

“Um, I suppose so, yes,” says Moonjumper, as the nervous bound ghost still hovering by the fountain starts _whining_.

“ _Guys_ , Snatcher said this dude could be bad news! Can we please go back to hiding?”

“I like your boots,” says yet another (and where did it even come from?). “Very fancy.”

“ _Too_ fancy. Seriously, I think we can take em if we all team up.”

“Aw, be nice, everyone, or they’re gonna start crying again,” says the smug one.

“Um—” says Moonjumper.

“Not sure about this cloak though,” says the boots one, plucking at it. “Kinda makes _me_ want to cry.”

“Why did you have to start talking to them? Now we’re _all_ gonna get in trouble,” the nervous one hisses, smacking the first one with a _whmph_ of empty fabric.

“Are you really magical?” asks another, and Moonjumper realizes that there are at least a dozen little bound ghosts hovering over and around them, plucking at their clothing and squabbling with each other like children. One is batting gently at their white ponytail; another seems to be pickpocketing them.

“You don’t have gold, but you _do_ have a needle and thread?” that one asks, bemused.

“What are your pronouns?” asks the one from the window.

“Ah, they’re —” Moonjumper falters, surprised to find themself stumped. Luka had used he/him for as long as he could remember, but _they_ also remember being one with all of time and space as the Horizon, which means they were every gender at once (as well as every molecule, every moment, and also the _absence_ of gender) so… maybe that’s why ‘he’ feels weird? Alternatively, they sort of _are_ Luka; maybe dying somehow changes how one feels about pronouns? Is that possible? Should they ask?

The little bound ghosts close in around Moonjumper, faceless and shining as they chatter on and ask weirder questions. Even without the existential gender crisis Moonjumper’s currently experiencing, it’s quite unnerving. These ghosts act like children — were they? Did Luka know them? Why have they all been _bound_?

Unnatural shapes twitch in their peripheral vision. It takes a moment for Moonjumper to trace the magic back to their own hands. _You’re getting overwhelmed,_ they realize. _You can control this situation, though — you have all the memories of a socially trained royal! Pull yourself together!!_

“Ah, s-so,” Moonjumper says, interrupting three distinct conversations the ghosts are all attempting at once. “Are you all dead, then?”

The town center goes quiet.

 _Well_ , Moonjumper thinks, closing their eyes in nearly physical pain, _this whole “existing” experiment has been quite interesting, but I think at this point it is safe to say it’s a failure._

“Wow,” says one of the bound ghosts.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Moonjumper says.

“Well. Yes, though,” another pipes up. “All of us here, and the rest of the ghosts too.”

Moonjumper cracks open an eye. “The… rest of the ghosts?”

The group of little bound ghosts nod; one comes forward to speak. “Yeah, like those guys over there. They haven’t agreed to be bound yet, but hopefully they will before they get too lost.”

Moonjumper looks in the direction several of them are gesturing and sees… nothing. Just ice and old stone.

“I’m. Not sure what other ghosts you’re speaking of?” they say truthfully.

Several cloaked faces turn variously between Moonjumper and what appear to be empty pockets of air. Moonjumper’s spine prickles; they feel abruptly uneasy.

“You mean,” one of the bound ghosts finally says, “you can’t see them?”

Moonjumper barely has time to twitch before a new bound ghost comes zooming down the path, yelling, “Snatcher’s coming!”

At once the dozen or so cloaked figures hanging off of Moonjumper _bolt_ , disappearing behind broken statues and frozen fountains and jagged ice. Within seconds Moonjumper is once again alone in the middle of the town square, feeling even further out of their depth than they had just a few minutes ago.

“ _You_!” bellows the distant voice of Snatcher, and Moonjumper is forcibly reminded of why they’re here. 

Luka was always better at lying to himself than to others — now, Moonjumper needs to be _better_ . So, grateful for the mask shielding most of their face, they push away any thoughts that aren’t _opening question_ and _Dad’s royal declarations_ and _Horizon-level assuredness_ and turn to face the approaching spirit, being sure to let magic lift from their closed fists.

“I thought I told you to _get lost_ —” Snatcher roars, shooting through the air like an arrow, but Moonjumper doesn’t let him finish.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Snatcher. You don’t know what my magic can do yet.” Neither does Moonjumper, of course, but Snatcher doesn’t need to know that.

To their relief, the spirit pulls back at that, suddenly on guard. Moonjumper stands in the town center, watching warily, as Snatcher bares his teeth — and doesn’t approach. He stays out of reach, circling them in sinuous movements like a snake encircling its prey.

Fortunately, Luka’s never been scared of snakes. For once in their unlife, Moonjumper has the upper hand; they stand straighter, hold themself with more certainty.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” they announce. Their words echo off the icy pillars that make up Subcon. “I’m not an assassin; Probonough didn’t send me. I’m here of my own accord because I have some questions for you… and a proposition.”

Snatcher laughs, loud and distinctly unamused. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, brat. You don’t have anything that could possibly interest me.”

“Maybe not, but if you don’t answer my questions not only will you never know, but I’ll go right up to the manor as soon as I finish dealing with you,” Moonjumper lies, watching Snatcher’s reactions.

The spirit flinches minutely at that and grits sharp teeth. His tail lashes back and forth in agitation as he continues to circle, flexing sharpened claws as he watches Moonjumper right back. “...Fine,” he finally growls. “Ask your questions.”

They want to sag into their relief, but Moonjumper forces themself to stay steady. “Thank you,” they say slowly. There’s so much they don’t know — where to start? “First: you said it was _you_ who bound these ghosts. Why?”

Snatcher sneers at them. “You may not be alive, but you’re just as ignorant as any mortal. Let me ask _you_ : what happens to an unbound ghost if it’s not immediately helped?”

Moonjumper balks at that. Luka saw only a handful of ghosts in his time, most of them very fresh, but when he was thirteen Probonough had an emergency meeting for a ghost that had been hidden until it was nearly too late. She had been a young woman, whose lover —

Reality distorts terribly and Moonjumper forcibly pulls themself back together. Snatcher is watching them, his glowing eyes narrowed; they have to _focus_ , stay in the present. “They fade away,” Moonjumper manages. “They pass on without having dealt with their trauma.”

“ _Wrong_ ,” Snatcher hisses. “The living _think_ they pass on, but that’s just because they stop seeing them. They’re still there, getting weaker and weaker, farther away from who they once were. They _never_ pass on.”

“ _What_ ,” Moonjumper breathes, horrified, but Snatcher doesn’t let them sit with that for long.

“ _Every_ ghost that isn’t helped in time stays, stuck and in pain and fading more and more til it’s nearly impossible to help them. But other ghosts can see them, even if the living forget.”

Despite the horrifying implications of what Snatcher is saying, Moonjumper can’t help but feel a little sliver of relief: the spirits that the bound ghosts had pointed out weren’t visible to them because whatever Moonjumper is, they’re not a ghost — but Snatcher takes that hope away from them, too.

“It takes constant energy to keep the spirits of Subcon still visible and unforgotten to the living,” he tells them, tail twitching. “Binding them to physical forms is much more efficient and stops them from fading away. You may think it cruel, but when the alternative is that much worse… is it really?”

“No,” Moonjumper blurts. Snatcher watches them, silent. “No, you’re right. If they would otherwise be lost like that, then — you’re right.” It occurs to them, briefly, that he could be lying — but the Horizon is humming in their chest and somehow they know that he’s speaking the truth.

That seems like a potentially valuable ability, actually. They mentally poke at the Horizon, wondering if it could just get their answers that way — and _immediately_ pull back, head aching with the sharp pain of attempting to Know All using a normal human brain. Apparently the occasional confirmation is all they can expect.

“Well?” Snatcher grumbles. “Are you done wasting my time?”

“No,” Moonjumper snaps, then takes a deep breath — _calm down_. “Binding the ghosts keeps them here. But they still don’t know who they are; isn’t it cruel to keep them going without that knowledge?”

Snatcher grits his teeth, arms and fists clenched (and look at that: he’s becoming less monstrous with each passing moment). “ _No_ , because they _will_ remember. I know the original faces of every ghost here; as soon as I collect enough souls, I’ll be able to tell them who they were and they’ll be able to pass on.”

Moonjumper looks into Snatcher’s lantern-bright eyes, so similar to the faces of the bound ghosts. They don’t want to have their suspicions confirmed but they _need_ to know. “But just knowing their faces wouldn’t be enough, would it? You’d only be able to help them pass on if you really _knew_ them. Personally.” Across the town circle, Snatcher stills. “And you did, didn’t you? You said you’ve been eating souls — that must have changed your form, given you new abilities, but underneath that all… you’re a ghost too, aren’t you?”

Wind whistles through the remains of Subcon.

“...Ha,” Snatcher says. “Haha… HAHAHAHAAAAH!” He crosses his arms tight across his body, shoulders shaking. Moonjumper waits, feeling numb, as laughter echoes through the dead town.

“Alright, kid, maybe you’re smarter than you look,” he finally chuckles hoarsely, scrubbing at his face with human-like hands. “Yes, I died here, just like the rest of Subcon. Probably the same way as everyone else — but who knows? Even with the souls I’ve collected, my memories are still hazy.” He grins, bright and eerie and not at all happy. “I just have to keep taking souls until I remember enough to send everyone else on.”

He doesn’t even know who he used to be.

Moonjumper wants to — they don’t know — this whole situation is too _painful_ . Snatcher has no idea who he was, was killed traumatically himself, and still he’s taken responsibility for helping all of Subcon. He’s had to steal the souls of the living, bind the ghosts of people who were once his neighbors and friends, and work alone for half a century to complete a duty that isn’t his — because it’s _Luka’s_ , which means it’s _Moonjumper’s_.

But Moonjumper can’t see any of the unbound ghosts. Even if they could, ghosts don’t always look the same as they did in life — there’s no guarantee that they could match each spirit to the correct memories. They might even do damage trying, and they couldn’t bear that, not when they’ve left Subcon alone for all these years, left one of Luka’s subjects to do the job that should have been _theirs_.

 _Did I know you?_ Moonjumper wonders, eyes darting over the vaguely human form that Snatcher has taken on. _Who was your family? Who did you love? Why have you taken this responsibility for mistakes that aren’t yours?_

Snatcher stands on two legs, arms crossed, leaning against a pillar of ice and watching Moonjumper right back. He seems to be waiting, like he knows they have another question… one Moonjumper doesn’t want to ask.

 _Icy fingers trailing down his cheek, hardly any light down in the cellar, hunger like nothing he’d ever known_ — and now, an entire town frozen solid. The woman who did it is just up the hill, alone in the manor, and Snatcher won’t let anyone go near her.

Moonjumper tries to remember being the Horizon, being impersonal about the whole, how minute and unimportant death was. Snatcher tilts his head in mocking attention when they clear their throat.

“Subcon’s queen is a killer,” they say. They’re distantly amazed they don’t stutter. “She killed the whole town. She killed _you_. Why do you protect her?”

At once, Snatcher’s human shape melts away into something monstrous and snake-like. Waves of strange violet light ripple across his form and his eyes gleam with fury. “You _weren’t there_ . You _can’t_ understand,” he snaps.

A bitter chuckle escapes before Moonjumper can stop it, but they rein themself in — now is not the time to remember that terrible time in her basement, to think about the shackles still on their wrists, to feel _sorry_ for themself. “Then explain it to me.”

“It wasn’t her fault — she didn’t _want_ to!!” Snatcher hunches over, wrapping his clawed hands tight around himself. “She loved her people. She _loved_ them — it hurt her to do it.”

“But she still did it,” Moonjumper argues. “She killed all of them.”

“You didn’t _see_ her,” he thunders. “You never _knew_ her. I may not have all my memories, but she was royalty. She was _my princess_.”

Moonjumper takes a step back, reality fluctuating wildly around them. How many times did Luka call her that very same thing? How many times did he excuse her behavior with those same words? He had thought it was _his_ fault every time, every time until the last one, and by then it was much too late.

Snatcher hasn’t noticed Moonjumper’s reaction; he’s curled in on himself, looking inhuman but _small_ , like he’s trying to shield himself, and Moonjumper abruptly remembers doing that same exact thing several times since waking up with Luka’s traumatic memories.

 _This being was once your subject_ , Moonjumper reminds themself. _He’s been hurt — badly — and hurt himself again and again since then, trying to help the rest of Subcon heal. Whatever his feelings about Vanessa, you can’t help_ any _of them if you alienate him before you can prove your worth._

“Alright,” Moonjumper says.

Snatcher twitches. He looks up, eyes unreadable behind their glow. “What?”

“Alright, I understand — or, I don’t understand,” _the bound ghosts act so young, were they children, why did she make all of Subcon suffer, they were innocent,_ “but I accept that I don’t need to. The queen is under your protection and I’m not here to challenge that.”

Snatcher blinks, then straightens up, standing once more on two legs. “...Oh. Then…” He crosses his arms again, defensive and suspicious. “Why _are_ you here?”

Moonjumper takes a calming breath. They have a responsibility to Subcon and to Snatcher both; even if it’s difficult and painful to admit what they are — that they aren’t _really_ Subcon’s prince — if it’s useful to Snatcher’s goal then they have a duty to own up to it.

“I’m from a place called the Horizon,” they say. “It’s a little hard to explain, but — I have knowledge of the people who lived here before they died.”

Snatcher steps closer, breaking the unspoken line that had kept him and Moonjumper apart since they reentered his forest. “Are you saying—?”

“Yes,” Moonjumper confirms. “With our knowledge combined, I think we can help some of these ghosts pass on _now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mild gender crisis; general social panic; lots of talk of passing on; LOTS of talk of death, including children; victim blaming self for abuse/death. lmk if u think there should be others plz :)
> 
> 1\. they're simultaneously So Close to figuring out they're both versions of Luka but also SO FAR omg  
> 2\. if you haven't seen tumblr user fablegate's AMV about snatcher's start, PLEASE DO, it's on their blog under /post/615709498667073536/ -- it was the thing that made me RLY want to know more about these characters in the first place! :)  
> 3\. that said, i went a totally different direction here lmao. bc the ghosts in the game don't seem to have memories of who they were, i've decided snatcher didn't either originally - BUT he remembers more w each soul he takes, and he's already had 50 years! plus even if the memories are gone, the emotions don't seem to be (haha, yikes). SO, we have mj w some knowledge, snatcher w the rest - and neither realize that (wrt this one specific thing anyway) they're /sort of/ two halves of a whole.  
> 4\. ugh, can they just BE FRIENDS ALREADY, jeeze. i thought we'd have gotten there by now, but what can ya do! fortunately they should start properly bonding next chapter (please. stop stretching, fic).  
> 5\. i have added the tag "Major Character Undeath" to this story, bc YIKES are we talking about death a lot! idk why i thought i'd be able to avoid it when Every Character is explicitly dealing w death-related trauma like. dude. cmon  
> 6\. "and i will sprinkle in just a little loserness to mj's personality oh NO the cap was loose oh god oh peck" // to be fair, this isn't the same Luka who was raised in a loving household, beloved by his kingdom, encouraged in all his pursuits, and basically never dealt with being Wrong -- this is the Luka who's just DIED from being Really Wrong about his reality, and who also ISN'T Luka, sort of. what i'm saying is the prince would have been a bit like this if he survived, but MJ's getting the brunt of it. poor guy! (also i say "loser" with SO MUCH affection, i swear)  
> 7\. this has been a busy week for me, but i'm still pluggin away on this. Plot Gods, if you're listening, could you please cool it? i wanna finish this within the next two months max PLEASE  
> 8\. yall it is SO COOL to read your thoughts about this fic! i thought no one would be interested in my silly/angsty ideas about a cut/non-existent character from an otherwise sweet and fluffy game. so: thanks :D like so much. this is rly neat for me ahhhhhh!
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Moonjumper discovered they couldn’t see ghosts, bluffed Snatcher’s backstory out of him, and proposed they work together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

Snatcher keeps rushing ahead and then doubling back, clearly impatient. He seems to have forgotten to maintain his monstrous shape and instead looks mostly humanoid, if vague about the details: his legs keep smearing together in his excitement and he seems unsure what to do with his hands, clasping them together and then forcing them down by his sides faux-casually. The fourth time he has to stop and wait for Moonjumper he finally breaks the silence.

“Can you  _ really  _ not go any faster, kid?” he grumbles, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I’m  _ trying _ ,” Moonjumper snaps, then takes a deep, calming breath. They’ve been following Snatcher through the remains of Subcon for ten or fifteen minutes now and every step  _ hurts _ — not just because of Moonjumper’s still-aching leg, but also because their memories of this place are so different from the current reality.

Luka could count on one hand the number of times it actually snowed in Subcon, but now ice covers everything and snow crunches beneath their feet. Even the trees are iced-over; leaves on the lower branches are distorted through a sheen of ice, while the un-iced upper branches look dead and brittle. Subcon, once full of life and warmth, is now dormant and cold — of  _ course  _ it hurts Moonjumper to witness.

Then again, their pain is  _ not  _ a good excuse to be rude, especially to someone who once knew Subcon the same way Luka did. So Moonjumper gathers themself and reaches for the princely bearing they know they have. “My injury is slowing me down, but I will try to move faster.”  _ That’s all you need to say; no need to bring up anything else. Just let it be. _ “...Also, I’m not a ‘kid’ — I’m in my twenties, and have knowledge that spans across all time and space.”  _ Oh, great going, good job, well done there _ .

“And  _ I _ was an adult when I died, and have been around for fifty years since then,” Snatcher immediately retorts. “To me, whatever you know, you’re still just a kid. And this Horizon nonsense  _ still _ doesn’t make sense to me.”

“It’s not easy to explain,” Moonjumper agrees, consciously unclenching their jaw. “Suffice it to say that I have knowledge of Subcon from, ah, shortly before the queen came into power.”

“And you really think that will ‘ _ suffice _ ’? To help them pass on?” Snatcher asks, slowing his pace to keep step with Moonjumper.

“I think so. I  _ hope  _ so,” they reply. It was only by accident that they stole Luka’s body and memories, and it feels strange that they will never be able to actually ask his forgiveness. But maybe, if they can help his subjects pass on, if they do what he would have done, it will have been worth it. Maybe they can make things right.

“Well, it’d better,” Snatcher says with a scowl, crossing his arms across his body. Moonjumper notices that he’s turned his hands into claws once again and their curiosity lights like a match.

“So, ah, how does your shapeshifting work?” they ask before they can stop themself. “Are you controlling it consciously? Is it an ability innate to all ghosts, or is it a function of the souls you’ve collected? And how do you get souls, anyway? I can’t imagine it often goes the way it did earlier, when you tried with me. How did you figure out you could do it?”

Snatcher’s eyes shift to give off the vibe of a single raised eyebrow. With effort, Moonjumper shuts their mouth.

“...What, your Horizon powers don’t tell you?” he asks, pulling himself in tighter and losing the legs to a ghostly tail. He breaks step with Moonjumper to float a little above and ahead, glancing coolly over vanishing shoulders.

“Ah, they’re… rather limited right now,” Moonjumper admits with a wince. “I — I apologize for my forwardness; I didn’t mean any offense, I was just curious. But of course you wouldn’t want to talk about it—”

“It  _ is  _ impolite to ask so many personal questions,” Snatcher drawls, and Moonjumper has to bite their tongue not just to stop the flow of apologies but also to stop themself from pointing out that of the two of them, Snatcher really has  _ no  _ right to talk about  _ manners _ —

“But… the other ghosts don’t seem to be able to do it,” Snatcher admits, slowing for Moonjumper to catch up. He floats on at a pace they can comfortably keep up with. “They stay in those serpent forms — you’ve seen them.” Moonjumper nods, remembering Luka’s experiences with ghosts, and hopes that their inability to see them  _ now  _ doesn’t come up. “It’s hard for them to try new things, like that. Even trying to talk with them…” He shakes his head. “Easier to have a conversation once they’re bound, and then they can’t change shape anyway.”

Moonjumper nods, not daring to say a word.

“As for where I get souls,” Snatcher continues, easing into a two-legged step once more beside Moonjumper, “I can’t imagine that I knew enough to want the first ones. But after that, when it became clear I  _ needed  _ them if I wanted to protect — well, all of this,” he gestures around the woods, “I started killing.”

Moonjumper misses a step. “You — I beg your pardon?”

Snatcher stops a few paces ahead of them beside a large, jutting column of ice. He doesn’t turn around. “I started  _ killing _ . Haven’t you heard the stories?”

The woman at the cafe — she had told them a fairy tale, a folk story about Subcon’s history. Moonjumper had, naturally, assumed that parts of it were exaggerated. For all his rudeness and bravado, Snatcher seemed more  _ scared  _ than violent, more defensive and protective than murderous — of course a folk tale would simplify him as a boogeyman. That didn’t mean he  _ was  _ one.

“The first one was the hardest,” Snatcher says, gazing at the icy column. “I barely knew what I was, much less what I was doing. All I knew was that those soldiers would kill the princess if given the chance, and she was in no state to defend herself.” Snatcher sighs quietly. “It was tough — ghosts can’t touch the living, so I had to be clever. Used his own sword against him, in the end, and by then I’d already absorbed a number of souls so the rest was practically instinct.

“Nowadays I prefer traps — much cleaner. I don’t have to interact with my victims if I don’t want to: just trap them, kill them quick, eat the soul and toss the body. Simple, easy, relatively painless. Most people who step into my forest these days know the risks — many are counting on them. So when you came running in, apologizing to my minions like they were living children, trying to  _ reason  _ with them… I was curious.”

He turns lazily in the air to face Moonjumper, who hasn’t moved a muscle since Snatcher stopped walking. “I’m  _ still _ curious. In fifty years, no one quite like you has come into my forest… But if you can’t prove your worth, I’m not opposed to killing you right here and right now.”

Moonjumper’s mouth is dry. Snatcher watches them closely, waiting.

He’s a  _ killer _ . He would have killed Moonjumper if they hadn’t tried to apologize to his bound ghosts, and has killed many others besides. What makes him different from Vanessa?

But he only did it to protect his queen, and then his people. Though the Horizon knows there are other ways to collect souls, Snatcher does not; he’s been doing the best he can for the past fifty years with whatever knowledge he could scrape together on his own. And he  _ is  _ on his own: Vanessa in her manor, only fading ghosts to talk to, obligated to kill whoever gets close enough so that he can maintain Subcon and its people. It’s a terrible position. 

Moonjumper doesn’t want to think about what they would do in his place — and they  _ should  _ be in his place. Taking care of Subcon is Luka’s duty, which makes it theirs. But  _ could  _ they? If they had to pick between protecting their people and the lives of strangers, what would they choose?

Snatcher floats there beside a column of ice in the remains of the forest Luka once knew so well, patiently gauging their reaction, and incrementally Moonjumper starts to relax. 

They don’t have to make that decision because Snatcher already  _ has _ . It isn’t their place to judge his methods, particularly when his options were so limited, because ultimately  _ he _ has kept Subcon going all these years on his own when  _ they _ did not. Yes, Snatcher has killed, and likely plans to kill again — but Moonjumper is here now. With their knowledge from both Luka and the Horizon, perhaps they can change things.

They wrap a dangling chain around their hand and tug, finding comfort in the sensation. Snatcher doesn’t blink, just watches as they think things through. Finally, confident in their phrasing, they say, “I think—”

“I don’t  _ care  _ what you think,” Snatcher interjects and turns quickly away, one hand reaching up to cradle seemingly empty air. “Your opinion  _ doesn’t matter  _ to me; you’re just here because I can use you, alright? We’ve wasted enough time anyway, just get over here and help me with this.”

_ Alright, it isn’t my place to judge him _ , part of Moonjumper reasons, while the rest of them wants to  _ scream  _ in irritation. Instead they just clench their jaw in as much of a smile as they can manage and limp over to meet him.

Only to stop dead when they realize that contained within the column of ice is a  _ person _ .

She’s perfectly preserved; the ice is clear and barely warped, permitting Moonjumper an unobscured view of a woman in her early thirties wearing Subcon’s soldier gear. She has one arm up as though to block the wave of ice that ultimately consumed her, her eyes wide with fear. An old, jagged scar stretches from one ear to all the way to her chin.

“Emilia,” Luka gasps, and falls forward, scrabbling at the ice between them. His fingers blunt off the ice, too weak to make a mark, and he thinks for a desperate moment that maybe if he can hit it hard enough he can break her free — he needs something heavy enough but not so heavy he can’t lift it,  _ why  _ is he so weak —

“Hey,” someone barks, and the bitter cold surrounding Luka is broken by the sudden presence of ambient heat to his left. He glances over, mind still focused on  _ Emilia, how could this happen, Emilia _ — “She’s not  _ there _ , you fool,” Snatcher growls, ghost-bright eyes judgmental. “That’s just the body. Talk to  _ her _ , not it.”

The ghost lifts his hands, carefully cradled around — nothing. Luka is half-tempted to ignore him and go back to trying to free her, but —

“ _ Hey _ !” Snatcher snaps. “You’re being  _ incredibly  _ rude right now.”

_ Me?!  _ Luka wants to shout, but they’re not Luka. Moonjumper blinks at Snatcher, momentarily confused. He was — they were?

At eye-level, the ice column is missing pieces. It’s as if a master sculptor has picked out perfect blocks of ice in random patterns, enough to make a dent but not enough to reach the body. Moonjumper staggers back, head pounding, and rapidly shakes his hands with a jingle of chains to dismiss the Horizon magic that had come their aid. “I — I’m so sorry, I was just —”

They have no idea what to say.  _ I was just reacting to the death of a woman I once saw as an older sister? Except she was never my sister because  _ I _ was never actually the prince? So I was just having a pointless magical freakout because I forgot that I wasn’t really the person whose body and memories I stole? _

A shiver tears through them; they hunch over and tug their cloak closer, feeling too much at once. They’re being foolish — this isn’t something they have the right to react to. They squeeze their eyes shut, trying to get a hold of themself.

Warmth blooms on their face and they scrub at it, frustrated that they’re crying  _ again _ , but their hand comes away dry. “Hey—” comes an unexpectedly close voice, and Moonjumper jerks back in surprise.

And  _ Snatcher _ does, too, a quick flinch away from them. His eyes are guarded as he protectively pulls his cupped hands against his chest, providing a shield for the ghost that Moonjumper cannot see. The fireplace-heat that he emits flickers uncertainly. He looks wary and worried — about  _ Moonjumper _ . They blink, sure they’re misunderstanding.

But Snatcher, telegraphing his movements, slowly crouches down beside them, edging forward on two knees in the snow til there’s only a few feet of space between them. He keeps his lantern eyes focused on Moonjumper — who watches right back, Horizon humming unsteadily in their chest.

Snatcher clears his throat. “You act like you knew her,” he says with surprising gentleness.

Moonjumper winces and buries themself further into their cloak. “I didn’t, really,” they admit quietly. “It just… feels like I did.”

The human-shaped ghost before them hums thoughtfully. “What can you tell me about her?”

Moonjumper takes a deep breath, lets it out, and lets themself remember. They begin according to tradition:

“Once upon a time, there was a knight named Emilia. She wasn’t always a knight, of course: she began life as many do, by yelling and screaming at the world she’d just been born into. Unlike many, though, Emilia never  _ stopped  _ yelling. She was the youngest of four siblings and certainly the bossiest, known throughout Subcon for following after her siblings and chastising them: ‘be careful with that sword,’ ‘put those cherries back you didn’t pay for them,’ ‘don’t leave me behind.’ She grew loud from all the yelling, and fast from all the chasing, and strong from the occasional fight (none of which she started, of course). Such was Emilia’s life for a dozen years or so before she met a stupid, rambunctious little boy in Subcon’s marketplace.

“He was hiding behind the turnip stall and crying his eyes out, for he had gotten lost in an unfamiliar place. He was beginning to think himself lost forever when Emilia, fresh from a tussle with a thieving cousin, set eyes on him and plopped down beside him to have a good yell about dirty fighting and cheaters, startling him so that he quite forgot to cry. Every time he began to remember his circumstances and his eyes began to water, Emilia would bluster, ‘And another thing!’ and set off on another tirade that would distract the boy so thoroughly that he was laughing before he knew it. ‘And  _ another  _ thing,’ Emilia bellowed, ‘can you  _ believe  _ how easy it is to get lost in this marketplace! I swear, they should put signs up warning people. I can’t stand it, little boy, can you?’ And of course the little boy sniffled and said shyly, ‘n-no,’ so of course Emilia had to pick him up and put him on her shoulders and start shouting up and down the market aisles, ‘Can you believe this place? Letting a wonderful little boy get separated from his parents like this! Tell me, sir, have you seen this boy’s parents? No? How about you, over there, have you?’

“Like this, Emilia brought the boy up and down and all throughout the marketplace, until finally the little boy leaned forward with a delighted laugh and pointed out his parents: the king and queen of neighboring Probonough, here for the week on official business and quite worried about their little Prince Luka having run off.

“A lesser person may have let young Prince Luka down and been on their way, but Emilia bravely strode right up to the royal visitors to give them a loud talking-to about keeping track of their ‘mischievous little boy, did you know I found him crying alone in the dirt? Someone should teach him some practical skills, like asking for help when he needs it, to say the least. Honestly, who do you think you are?’

“Well, Probonough’s king and queen weren’t sure what to think of themselves, but they  _ did _ know what to think about the way their dear son was grinning past the obvious tear tracks on his face. From that day forward, whenever Probonough’s royals visited Subcon and needed some time for official duties, little Luka would be dropped off with a loudly complaining Emilia who would teach him whatever ‘practical skill’ she felt he needed, from projecting his voice to fencing with wooden swords to ‘jeeze, Lu, sometimes it’s okay to just be  _ quiet _ for a while.’

“By the time Emilia was a young adult, she had both greatly improved Prince Luka and her skills with the sword. She was known to Subcon’s royals, of course, for her influence with the neighboring prince and her commanding presence, and when she requested a place in the royal guard they were only too happy to have her. She quickly rose through the ranks, aiming for the position of general—”

“Now that’s not true,” a familiar voice scoffs, and Moonjumper about chokes on their own spit in surprise. They muffle a cough into their elbow, looking wildly around… but nothing has changed. They still see only Snatcher, crouched beside them, focused entirely on a spot between them that to Moonjumper might as well be air. They’re just starting to doubt themself when Emilia’s voice comes again, faded but just as forceful.

“I never wanted to be a soldier. Not that I was bad at it, of course — youngest general in Subcon history, wasn’t I? But no, I wanted to work in the castle as a guard. I thought I’d be good at it, and what with all the running around I had to do to keep up with Lu it would have been nice to have the chance to just  _ stand _ for a while. It was Queen Vanessa — though she was still princess at the time, of course — who thought I was a better match for the frontlines. That’s where I was when they called us back, you know. After Luka went missing.”

Desperately hopeful, Moonjumper squints their eyes, tilts their head subtly back and forth — but to their dismay, Emilia’s ghost remains invisible to them. “What happened next?” Snatcher prompts, voice hushed.

“Well, we’d been fighting for the queen’s honor, hadn’t we? Probonough thought that Queen Vanessa had something to do with the prince’s disappearance, which we just couldn’t abide. But then one night the commander sent me an urgent notice, calling us all back — because Prince Luka had been found! I was thrilled, of course, and so relieved, because you wouldn‘t believe the kind of trouble that boy got up to as a child and I’m  _ sure  _ he just got better at finding it with age. But they asked us to retreat not to town, but to the amphitheatre, which I thought was odd — we rarely used that old place for meetings, you know, it was mostly ceremonial, or for… for…”

Moonjumper and Snatcher wait there silently in the snow.

“Oh. I remember,” comes Emilia’s faded voice. “After I sent my soldiers in I did a final sweep, just to make sure we hadn’t forgotten anyone. I was about to go in when the ice started. It happened so quickly.” She’s silent for a moment. “That ice — it was the queen’s, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Snatcher whispers.

“And the meeting… was it…” She’s quiet again. “They found Luka. But he wasn’t alive.”

Moonjumper swallows roughly. “No, he wasn’t.”

“...Huh. Always thought he’d outlive me,” Emilia says. “Well. Can’t wait to hear what he has to say about that.”

She falls silent. Snatcher leans back to sit heavily in the snow. Moonjumper blinks away tears. “Emilia,” they say, not sure where to start, how to apologize —

“She’s gone,” Snatcher says. “We did it. She’s moved on.”

_ What?  _ Moonjumper looks around in disbelief, panic rising, but of course they can’t see her — she’s  _ gone?  _ Already? But they didn’t really  _ talk  _ to her, didn’t apologize — they have so much left to say, and they didn't even get to  _ see  _ her —

“She’s gone… She’s  _ gone _ ! Kid, we did it!” Snatcher suddenly swoops down and, with a joyful laugh, wraps his arms around Moonjumper in a tight hug. “I’ve spent  _ fifty years _ trying to send even one of them off, and you show up out of  _ nowhere  _ and do it in a day!” The ghost’s form gives off that comforting, fireplace heat, cutting through the ice that feels like it’s formed in Moonjumper’s chest. Something hot and wet drops on their shoulder. “I thought I was going to have to — to—” They have just enough time to hesitantly raise their arms to return the embrace before Snatcher seems to remember himself and jerks away.

Moonjumper freezes awkwardly where they are, arms in the air. The ghost stares at them for a moment, shoulders rigid, glowing eyes blinking rapidly and darting between Moonjumper’s eyes and hands.

_ What are you scared of?  _ Moonjumper wants to ask.  _ What did you think you were going to have to do? _

“...Well,” Snatcher finally says. He crosses his arms and looks away, but they can see he’s trying not to smile. “Looks like you’re not  _ totally  _ useless after all. Now let’s get a move on, trooper, there’s more to do.” He turns on his heel with surprising primness and marches off, leaving Moonjumper standing there alone beside the column of ice that contains Emilia’s body.

They shiver. She looks just the same as they remember.

_ You never actually knew her, _ they remind themself.  _ There’s no reason to feel this way. Just pull it together and do your duty to Subcon. _

They let out a long breath and rub at the face below the mask, feeling weirdly old as they hurry to catch up with Snatcher. Glancing at him out of the corner of their eye, the ghost looks pleased and excited and maybe even  _ relieved _ . They consider that for a moment as they trudge through the snow beside him.

“You know,” they finally say, “I don’t really know why you’re doing this. You were just as much a victim of the queen’s magic as everyone else in Subcon.” Snatcher twitches, his grin becoming more of a grimace, so they continue hurriedly. “I just, ah, want to understand — why do these things for the other ghosts? You must know it’s neither your fault nor your responsibility.”

They hold their breath, wondering what this strange spirit will say. Snatcher is silent for a long moment, long enough that Moonjumper is sure that they’re about to be blown off, but then he chuckles and shakes his head.

“Maybe it’s not technically my responsibility,” he says, “but I can’t help but feel it’s my duty. I  _ can  _ help, so I must. You know?”

Moonjumper thinks about Luka’s first experiences with injustice and the fire it had lit in him, the drive to do as much good as he could. “I do.”

Snatcher eyes them for a second, judging, before finally nodding in apparent satisfaction. “Good. Even when we aren’t at fault, kid, it’s important to help others —  _ especially  _ when the one at fault will never take responsibility.”

“Ah?” prompts Moonjumper, unsure if they’re ready to have a conversation about Vanessa so soon but willing to work at Snatcher’s pace.

“This is all the fault of that awful Prince Luka, anyway,” says Snatcher, his face growing dark, and Moonjumper barely manages to muffle an alarmed  _ squeak _ .

“Now that’s a guy I wouldn’t feel bad about killing,” Snatcher continues, shadow and light storming across his form — and then he smiles brightly and claps a warm hand down on Moonjumper’s shoulder. “Anyway. Time’s a-wasting — let’s get a move on!”

As Snatcher tugs them through the snow, Moonjumper finds themself really,  _ really  _ hoping they live long enough to laugh about this someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: insensitivity about injury/disability; brief mention of suicidal behavior by unnamed snatcher victims; discussion of murder and soul-eating; brief but intense identity confusion; frozen body of a loved one; royal manipulation to put a person in harm’s way; helping a ghost pass on by discussing her death with her; self denial about right to react emotionally.
> 
> 1\. LMAO the universe is laughing at this poor guy (i’m the universe. muaha)  
> 2\. in terms of a 3-act, we’ve finally reached the closing of Act One!!! YEAHHH! Act Two is all about building their friendship, and also leads up to the plot point that got me invested enough to start writing this dang thing so! personally i’m excited :D  
> 3\. oh jeeze this chapter’s over 4.000 words. oh jeeze this whole fic was supposed to less than 25.000. oh jeeze oh gosh oh no  
> 4\. “i am moving forward and forging my own identity” yay! “and the first thing i’m going to do is take on all the responsibilities of my previous self!” uhhh ok “and the second thing i’m going to do is deny myself the right to work through that self’s trauma!!” wait buddy NO  
> 5\. i think the healthiest version of this mj would accept that he/him also works for them. so we’re probably not gonna see that for a while haha.... :( ... WHATEVER, it’s FINE  
> 6\. my next step is untangling the cluster of nonsense notes for their friendship, feat. such beauties as “spiderman points,” “not like i care about you or anything b-baka,” and “8)”
> 
> i hope this chapter finds you well. til next time!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Moonjumper realized Snatcher was a killer; decided it wasn't their place to judge, but was their place to try to ease his burden; helped an old friend pass on; and was faced with the fact that the person Snatcher hates the most happens to be the exact same person whose memories and body Moonjumper stole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess and a foolish prince…

No, that doesn’t work.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked queen…

_ No _ , that actually feels worse.

Once upon a time, in a lovely, warm cellar — oh, who is he kidding.

Luka has been down in this basement for far too long. It’s been long enough that he’s lost track of the passing weeks, long enough that he’s almost forgotten what it feels like to not be hungry or thirsty, and long enough that he’s having trouble finding a fairy tale version of this story that doesn’t sort of make him want to die. 

She’s been keeping him alive, of course — she couldn’t stand to be parted from him, as she’s explained many a time in ways patient and furious and agonized and apologetic. She’s only keeping him here for his own good, to keep him safe from those that might hurt or take advantage of him. She’s just doing what needs to be done.

Luka has tired of trying to reason with her. Even if he hadn’t, he’s had no opportunity for… three, four days now? Long enough that the thirst has become more maddening than the pain in his arms and shoulders, anyways, and that wasn’t something Luka had thought possible. No, she had apologized profusely for having to leave him, kissed his cheek despite his instinctive cringe away from her touch, and promised to return as soon as she had attended to her queenly duties — and then, nothing.

That had been some time ago. He can’t see out the low cellar windows from his wall, but by checking the progression of shadows between half-delirious periods of sleep he’s been able to gather that she’s been gone longer than she ever has before.

Is it pathetic that he misses her? Not just the water she brings, not just the food (but gods, if he  _ ever _ has to eat another cookie it will be too soon), but  _ her _ . Sometimes she’s nearly normal, despite the magic-red of her eyes. Sometimes he can almost hope that things might go back to normal.

At that moment the doors to the cellar creak open. Luka leans forward — and then  _ immediately  _ back, his head spinning with the movement. Darkness fades in around the edges of his vision and he has to blink it away, breathing in shallow little bursts, until he finally registers the clink of chains.

He freezes where he is, heart rate rocketing because those aren’t  _ his  _ chains. She’s bringing  _ more  _ — he doesn’t understand what he did wrong, or at least why she thinks more chains will help. Are they to make sure he holds his head up? He  _ tries _ , but he’s exhausted all the time now and, honestly, it’d help his motivation if she could admit that she might, even just a little bit, be  _ in the wrong here _ —

But she continues down the stairs with a slow and unsteady  _ th-thump _ , chains jingling almost delicately as she goes. He tries to say something, anything, but his voice catches in his throat with a dry rasp and  _ burns _ ; every cough sends pain wracking through him and he can barely breathe, can do nothing as she limps closer.

Something about that last bit seems odd, but it’s hard to think about anything when he just wants the pain to  _ stop _ . He’s always been a bit of a crybaby but he has no more tears to give as she comes to a stop before him. He just tries to keep breathing and waits, waits for her judgment and her chains and her apologies that she doesn’t want to do this, that it hurts her, that she _ loves  _ him.

“...You know,” a strange, buzzing version of his own voice says, “you don’t deserve this.”

Luka’s head jerks up and standing there, cool as anything, is  _ them _ . The crescent moon mask and cloak might obscure them to the casual observer but Luka can recognize himself, thank you, even when he’s been taken over by some strange, unknowable piece of unreality.

He jerks away, but he already knows his chains don’t allow him the necessary slack to put any real distance between them. Instead it just jars his shoulders and the sores around his wrists, leaving him hissing in pain as the figure standing there winces sympathetically and reaches for him —

“ _ No _ ,” he breathes, and it flinches back like he slapped it, strange red eyes hurt.

“I could free you,” it says. They sound almost  _ pleading _ ; Luka’s stomach twists. “I know how thirsty you are, how hungry and tired. You should not have to go through this alone.”

But Luka shakes their head, frantic even through the fatigue. They don’t want what it’s offering. They just want things to go back to  _ normal _ . The best route to that is staying here and  _ withstanding _ it, living through this whole awful ordeal and coming out the other side and figuring out what comes next  _ later _ . It can’t just leave her. She  _ needs  _ them.

The figure across from them seems to read all this on his face. Its own face crumples beneath the mask, red eyes gleaming with magic and unshed tears. “Oh, Moonjumper,” the figure says, his buzzing voice gentle and apologetic. “It’s already too late.”

The other reaches out as they realize. Their hand comes down on their shoulder and sends a bolt of  _ cold _ through them, ice that shoots through their whole body and reverberates painfully in their leg, and —

***

And Moonjumper wakes up.

Their heart should be pounding in their chest, but their body doesn’t work like that anymore. Instead the Horizon  _ spikes  _ and reality starts to fall apart around them — Moonjumper scrambles to undo it, calling back the floor before it can vanish entirely in unnatural rectangles and squares.

Under their instruction, the wood fits itself back together neatly, perfectly, like it had never been torn from reality in the first place. Moonjumper breathes shallowly for a moment and tries to collect themself.

They’re cold, but that’s nothing new in Subcon. Their leg aches, but that’s nothing new for Moonjumper. They were sleeping on the floor in the back room of the old puppet theatre tree house because they don’t have a mattress and even though they don’t  _ need  _ to sleep, it’s a relief after twelve-hour days of reliving stolen memories of the dead while trying to both obfuscate their source from Snatcher and provide enough information that the ghosts can remember themselves — and even when it works, some of the ghosts need more processing time than others. They’d been working on their most recent villager for over a week without success.

With a groan, Moonjumper lets themself sink back to the ground and thinks instead about their latest dream. They’ve had weirder in the past two months or so since, ah,  _ joining existence _ , but it really doesn’t seem fair that their confusion about who and-or what they are should follow them when they’re meant to be resting. They’re a body-snatching fragment of (un)reality that has fooled itself into thinking it was once Prince Luka. Accepting that should be  _ simple _ .

Through the broken window, down goes the sun and up come the mists common to heavily haunted areas. The moon is just past new, a mere sliver larger than when they went to sleep, and they let out a small sigh of relief — they must have slept for only a day, if that. Since their body is dead it lacks the rhythms associated with eating and waking, which means that it is easy to lose track of time while asleep. The first time they tried to take a nap they were knocked out for a full week.

_ Then again, _ they muse,  _ it’s always possible that I slept a full moon cycle rather than just a night. The mists obscure most of the stars; it’d be nearly impossible to tell. _

They consider this for a moment, outwardly calm.

Then they  _ launch _ themself off the ground and snatch up their neatly folded clothing, frantically stuffing limbs into sleeves and pants because  _ oh goodness how long have they been asleep _ . They fumble with the laces of their boots, cursing everything from their cold-numbed fingers to their stupid taste in fancy footwear, and nearly forget to tie on their crescent moon mask before teleporting away and rematerializing in a section of the forest they know Snatcher likes.

They’re already filling their lungs to call out to him as they land heavily on the forest path, so they have plenty of air with which to  _ yelp  _ when the burlap sack beneath their feet closes around them and hauls them up into the air like a sack of dead potatoes.

For a moment, their sense of deja vu overrides their panic about how long they’ve slept. Then a deadly laugh begins to echo around the forest.

“HAHA… AHAHAHA! FOOOOO—!”

“Snatcher,” they shout, and manage to wiggle out an arm, followed by their head. “It’s  _ me. _ ”

Snatcher, floating there in his form of a snake-like ghost, breaks off. His luminous eyes are round with surprise. For a moment Moonjumper almost thinks they’re about to receive sympathy… and then Snatcher’s yellow eyes crinkle and he  _ guffaws _ .

Moonjumper grits their teeth. “AHAHAHA!” Snatcher roars, clutching his sides. “Well hello there! What’s up, kid?” The ghost bites his lip with a viciously sharp fang, clearly trying to not to laugh. “...Besides you! AHAHAHAH—”

“Snatcher,  _ please _ ,” Moonjumper snaps. “I need you to tell me—” They pause and take a calming breath.  _ Model the correct behavior and maybe he will follow _ . “Please, would you tell me how long I was gone?”

“What, worried you lost track again?” Snatcher asks lazily, scooting around Moonjumper in a dark curl. “Just a day this time, kid. But if you need more time, I’m willing to let you  _ hang out  _ as long as you need.” He grins widely at them.

As much of a relief it is to hear they were only out for a day, Moonjumper has to bury their face in their elbow to both muffle a groan and hide the fact that a stubborn part of them wants to  _ return  _ that grin. Darn the ghost’s rudeness, but he is _ funny _ . Instead, with as much stately bearing as they can muster, they respond, “Thank you. Now, would you please consider letting me down?”

Snatcher pauses in his loops, looking at Moonjumper with a quiet sort of incisiveness that sets them abruptly on edge. “You know,” he says slowly, thoughtfully, “most magic-users would have gotten themselves down already.”

Moonjumper’s stomach drops. “Ah! R-right,” they stammer, and will themself to vanish from the trap. Snatcher glances down, expression still considering, as they reappear on the path below. “Well!” they call up to him, hoping their voice sounds more cheerful than brittle. “Time to get a move on, no? We’re still working with Roberto the butcher, I believe. We oughtn’t keep him waiting!” They clap their hands together, striving for “business-like,” and spin on their uninjured heel to head towards their latest efforts.

Snatcher flows down next to them, losing his more monstrous form in favor of the humanoid one that seems to be his default. They walk together in silence for just long enough that Moonjumper starts to believe they may have actually gotten away with forgetting their own magic before the ghost speaks again.

“You said you were in your twenties, right?” he asks suddenly.

Moonjumper blinks and glances sidelong at the spirit, who looks straight ahead without reaction. A few steps pass before they cautiously reply, “I do have memories of living that long, yes. However, I was also once all of time and space, so the question of ‘age’ is a moot one.”

“I don’t know that it is,” Snatcher says mildly, but moves on before Moonjumper can respond to that. “You know that ghosts, even those who’ve eaten souls, cannot touch the living? We just go right through them.”

“Well, yes,” they reply, thrown by the apparent non-sequitur, but Snatcher continues.

“That’s how I knew your body was dead that first day. Normally I can remove a soul easily, but your body was in the way,” he says. “And then I realized how odd your soul is. I’ve seen a lot of souls in my days, from regular folks all the way through the odd corrupted magic-user. But never one that’s so clearly and entirely magical as  _ yours _ .”

Through the rising unease, something about this exchange feels almost  _ familiar _ . That Moonjumper can’t quite put their finger on it only heightens their sense of foreboding.

“Besides the body, you’re practically  _ made _ of magic,” Snatcher continues. “One would think you’d have incredible power. And in your twenties, you’d have had at least a decade to hone your skill. Even if you were corrupted — and you’re much too lucid for that — at least you’d have that instinctual  _ control  _ over it.

“Instead,” he notes, “you forget you even _have_ magic. You rarely use it, except to show up here from wherever it is you spend the rest of your time — and, occasionally, when you get emotional, though that doesn’t seem to be on purpose. If I didn’t know any better, kid, I’d almost say you’re not used to having it at all.”

“A-ah,” Moonjumper stutters. Snatcher ignores this, clasping his hands together in intentionally telegraphed thought, and the familiarity of the situation suddenly sparks into a flame of realization.

Luka had been top of his class in law school from the start. In his first year, he’d been selected to go up against an upperclassman in a mock debate. He’d gone into it nervous but self-assured that even if he lost, it would be a valuable learning experience.

It had certainly been valuable, and he had learned a lot — namely that he should  _ never  _ have thought he’d win. The upperclassman had run circles around him, setting verbal traps and gently guiding Luka into walking right into them while methodically blocking off any potential avenue of escape. The worst, though, was the mounting dread as he gradually came to understand that he was up against someone with more knowledge, more experience, and considerably more ruthlessness.

“Which makes me  _ very  _ interested in the fact that in our second conversation, you threatened to use your magic to  _ end  _ me,” Snatcher continues with casual poise, and Moonjumper realizes that they are once again in a situation in which they are unprepared, outclassed, and doomed to failure. “Given everything I’ve just laid out, I’d almost think that perhaps you were  _ bluffing. _ But to outright lie to a soul-eating monster… did you really think you could get away with that?”

The ghost comes to a stop, finally turning his piercing, glowing gaze on Moonjumper. They stutter to a stop as well, Horizon racing in their chest, and vaguely notice that over the course of Snatcher’s monologue the magical confetti of their body has gotten much more acute.  _ Did  _ they really think they could get away with lying to a being that has spent the last fifty years killing every skilled magic user that dares enter his forest? They just wanted to help the ghostly remains of Subcon. How did they think they would manage that after Snatcher destroyed them for having the audacity to threaten him with no ability to follow through? Worse, what about when he realized their connection to Prince Luka?

“In my defense,” Moonjumper hears themself saying, “I never actually  _ said  _ I would destroy you. I merely said I would ‘deal’ with you, and I made a show of having some magical ability. Any assumptions about those two independent facts being related were your own.”

They immediately grit their teeth in nearly physical pain —  _ that was  _ so _ bad. Your old tutor would have torn you apart for such a weak defense. _ Indeed, Snatcher’s yellow mouth curls in what must surely be a snarl, and Moonjumper faintly wishes they had never even thought the phrase “torn apart.” But:

“HA!” Snatcher barks, and with a nearly aristocratic elegance turns and marches off the path and into the misty woods, leaving Moonjumper to stand there, leaning into their good leg, completely alone.

“ _ What _ ,” they mutter, baffled. Should they take this time to disappear? Is he giving them a head start? But Snatcher quickly reappears, the fog parting to reveal his dark form holding… a branch?

“Here,” he says, and tosses it at Moonjumper, who barely manages to catch it before it clobbers them. As soon as they touch it, the Horizon identifies it as a long root from the largest, oldest walnut tree in Subcon’s forest. The wood is sturdy and warm in their hands, with a large curl on the top that feels natural to rest a palm on.

“I… don’t understand,” they admit, looking up at Snatcher.

The ghost leans against a tree on the edge of the path, his arms crossed and expression wryly amused. “Well, kid, I don’t know if you’ve had that body long enough to figure this out, but dead bodies  _ don’t heal _ .” The jack-o-lantern grin on his face widens a bit as a shock shivers through Moonjumper — he’s right. It’s been two months and their leg is just as damaged as it was on their first night of existence. “And if you’re going to stick around for now, I’d rather you be able to keep up with me.”

They aren’t _alive_ — their body doesn’t need to sleep or eat, and similarly will never heal, never grow old. They’re stuck in the body they died in, stuck lugging it around and trying to keep it safe for the rest of their existence because the alternative is _non_ existence, and that’s much worse. But _this_ wasn’t what they wanted. Luka was supposed to marry Vanessa, combine their kingdoms, lead fairly until his children could take his place — or, the Horizon was supposed to just _be_ , uncaring and calm. _Nothing_ _has gone according to plan_.

“Kid.”

The root staff in their hand begins to dematerialize under their hands and Snatcher snaps, “Hey! I didn’t give it to you to magic away. Bring it back.”

“What?” they breathe, and suddenly a snake-formed Snatcher is in their face, the fireplace heat he gives off a shock compared to their frozen surroundings.

“ _ I  _ am a soul-eating monster, and  _ you  _ are an inexperienced magic-user who effectively  _ lied _ to get into  _ my  _ forest,” he growls, ghost-light pouring from between his inch-long fangs. “Don’t be disrespectful with my gift — bring it  _ back _ .”

With obedience borne from a bone-deep survival instinct, Moonjumper summons the staff back into their hands.

“Good.” Snatcher leans back and grins at them cheerfully, like he hadn‘t just been a moment away from tearing Moonjumper apart. “As I was saying, while you are on my property you will do as I say. You are useful to me —  _ for now _ — so I will allow you to continue helping send off the denizens of Subcon. But I expect you to  _ keep up with me _ . Get it?”

Moonjumper blinks a few times and categorizes their reality. They are in the frozen remains of Subcon, on their way to assist a killer ghost with trauma-processing for people Luka once knew. They have magic (in fact, probably quite a lot of powerful magic) that they barely know how to use yet. They thought Snatcher might kill them for it, but… perhaps not? He gave them a walking stick. He wants them to keep up.

“I beg your pardon, but are you going to kill me or not?” they ask, too out of sorts for subtlety.

“Oh, probably,” Snatcher replies, grinning widely. “ _ After _ I’ve finished with your services. And given how long this has been taking us so far, it seems to me that you’ll have plenty of time to  _ learn  _ how to use the magic you threatened me with, hm?”

Understanding washes through Moonjumper, so warm and unexpected that for a long moment they just continue to blink stupidly at the ghost before them. Snatcher is giving them a chance — not just to help Subcon, but to continue to  _ exist _ . He’ll let them learn to control their magic so that when the time comes, maybe Moonjumper will have a chance to escape with their unlife intact.

“Kid? You get it?” Snatcher asks, sounding bored and impatient.

“I’m not sure I deserve this,” they whisper, and for the barest fraction of a second Snatcher flinches back like they slapped him, strange yellow eyes hurt —

But then it’s gone and the ghost huffs in exasperation, pushing away from the tree he’d been leaning on. “If you’re so sure about that, then think of it like this,” he drawls. “It’s not about  _ you _ . It’s about Subcon.” He brushes past Moonjumper, practically sauntering, and pauses to glance at them over his shoulder. To their surprise, his bright eyes are uncharacteristically  _ gentle _ , and maybe even… apologetic? “And it’s about  _ me _ . You get it, kid?”

To be honest, this evening has been filled with a lot of ups and downs for Moonjumper (both figuratively and literally). They’re even less sure what to make of Snatcher than before, but… their grip tightens on the staff. “Yes.”

The ghost’s grin turns, for a moment, completely genuine. Then he turns away and strides along the path without another glance. “Well then let’s get a move on, kid! Roberto the butcher waits for no man. Or ghost. Or whatever you are. But he sure is waiting on passing on, isn’t he? I swear, we’ve been working on him for days now…”

The world and their place in it still feels very uncertain to Moonjumper. But the wooden staff is solid in their hand, and they find they feel much steadier as they follow in Snatcher’s footsteps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: general self-loathing and issues of self-worth; dream sequence featuring pain, hunger, thirst, mild suicidal ideation, canonical abuse, victim-blaming, and intense identity confusion; reality of living in a dead body; possibly losing track of large periods of time; canonical threat of killing; realization of permanent injury/disability; edge of a panic attack. WOOF, but also i think it's not as bad as it sounds?
> 
> 1\. snatcher is SO RUDE... but he's also just a marshmallow that got on fire. once u get past the flames and the scary exterior, he's all gooey sweetness.  
> 2\. the first bit of this chapter i couldn't get the image of mj running to school w toast in their mouth out of my head. help  
> 3\. "no research" i said, and then i spent an hour trying to figure out what kind of tree could look like snatcher's while also producing something like the badge seller's staff... only to decide in the end i that it didn't matter lol. that said, an old walnut tree COULD work. probably. also yes, in this fic mj is the badge seller.  
> 4\. i hope u guys like dramatic irony and two idiots becoming family, bc that's LITERALLY what this WHOLE ACT is gonna be about. it's so much more spread out than the previous act, too, which personally i find both freeing and nerve-wracking. ah well -- we are in it together!  
> 5\. i'm delighted by how these two are finding each other. mj u think he's irritating? mj u think he's FUNNY? i look forward to their friendship growing, and hope one day mj will feel comfortable chucking bombcherries at their annoying older brother  
> 6\. if anyone picked up on some narrative callbacks to previous chapters, lmk ;)  
> 7\. QUESTION: do any other characters ever reference the yarns you use to make hats? like do they ever point out where they can be found, and if so, do they call it yarn or just make oblique reference to it?
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Moonjumper worried about living in a dead body and Snatcher gave them a walking stick, but NOT bc he cares about them or anything, b-baka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

With utmost concentration, Moonjumper materializes in Subcon _just_ to the left of their usual spot, thereby evading the burlap sack they suspect Snatcher is purposely setting for them. “Ha,” they murmur in quiet victory, eyeing the unsprung trap. Snatcher is going to have to do better than that to catch them unawares — 

“Hi,” says a Subconite right by their elbow, and Moonjumper about leaps into the trap anyway with fright. It’s only by jamming their cane into the ground that they manage to keep their balance, and though they try to pass the move off as casual they’re _sure_ they look foolish. The little bound ghost looks up at them, expression unreadable.

“Ah, h-hi there, young one,” Moonjumper says, forcing as much warmth into their voice as they can manage on such short notice. “I didn’t see you there. Is, ah, is everything alright?”

The Subconite rocks back and forth on its heels, still gazing at Moonjumper with its unblinking, glowing face. “Uh-huh,” it replies very, very quietly.

When it doesn’t say anything else, Moonjumper gives it an uncertain smile. Luka was good with kids, and at this point Moonjumper knows that most of the Subconites _are_ children, but they’ve hardly seen any of them in the past few months since they started working with Snatcher. Presumably Snatcher told them in no uncertain terms to stay away from the magical dead guy, and this time they listened.

So the fact that there’s one here now… Moonjumper eyes the surrounding forest, but no furious monster-shaped soul-stealer appears. Hesitantly, they kneel down beside the little bound ghost. “Ah, I don’t want you to get in trouble, little one,” they say. “Does Snatcher know you’re here? He and I usually meet in this area…”

The tiny Subconite nods its fabric head and looks down, scuffing the forest path with a stitched foot. It murmurs something that Moonjumper can’t quite catch.

“Pardon?”

It repeats itself, even quieter than before, and Moonjumper leans in even further. “Ah, if you could just speak a little louder—?”

“Oh my _gods_ ,” a second voice shouts, and Moonjumper realizes with a jolt that while they were focused on the shy Subconite before them, at least _two dozen more_ have emerged from hiding spots throughout the forest. They all whip their heads around to the one that has yelled, which stands on a stump with its hands thrown up in the air in exasperation. “I _told_ you guys they couldn’t do it—”

“Shut up!” a chorus of voices reply, and at least five nearby bound ghosts tackle the shouting one to the ground. “Give them a chance!” one voice says clearly, and the little ghost before Moonjumper ducks its head.

Bewildered, Moonjumper looks between it and the surrounding Subconites, but those not occupied with hog-tying and gagging the one who had shouted don’t offer much in the way of help. “Go on,” one whisper-calls. “You’ve got this!!”

“Um,” says Moonjumper, and the little Subconite before them _sniffles_. “O-oh, ah, please don’t cry—”

But the little ghost takes a shuddering breath and reaches under its cloak, pulling out a crumpled scroll that it offers to Moonjumper in one clenched little mitten. It still won’t look at them, and it seems to be barely holding back tears, but it waves the scroll around with some insistence until Moonjumper takes it from them and unrolls it.

“This is… a list of items?” they say, and then continue unrolling. “...A _long_ list of items.” Many different hands have contributed to the list, starting with “ _paper ink pens yarn rope books_ ” in an elegant script and ending with a shakily lettered “ _GRAPLNG HOEK_ ”. Mystified, Moonjumper blinks down at the little ghost.

“...Snatcher’s busy today,” they whisper. “And we can’t go out, but we need supplies…”

“We have gold!!” another voice calls as two more Subconites haul a heavy bag into the air that probably weighs more than they do. Moonjumper focuses instead on the bound ghost trembling before them.

Ghosts are vulnerable to magic, and Moonjumper knows that with the red of their eyes they look not only magical but corrupted. If they were the bound ghost of a child — particularly one who has barely interacted with any adult besides Snatcher in fifty years — they would be _terrified_. But this little one is standing before them anyway, shakily but stubbornly facing the threat head-on.

Moonjumper can’t help the smile that blooms across their face. “Am I being sent on errands?”

The Subconite stiffens, then nods shortly, just a little jerk of its head. _You’re being_ so _brave_ — Moonjumper is nearly overcome with the urge to pat its head but, recognizing how scary that could be for the little thing, bites their lip and instead just returns its nod with solemnity.

“I thank you for your orders, young one. I will do my best to complete them.”

The little ghost jerks its head again in acknowledgment, then shuffles back a few steps. As soon as it’s out of Moonjumper’s reach it _plops_ to the ground and the rest of the Subconites come swarming in, cheering loudly for their peer.

“You did such a good job!”

“We _told_ you you could do it!!”

“What was it like? Were you scared?? Are they nice?”

The two lugging the sack of coins hustle over and dump it in front of Moonjumper, who reaches out and dematerializes it into the magical unspace that holds their crown and old clothes. They scooch away to give the Subconites their space, getting to their feet with the help of their cane and considering the list of items. Probonough might have all these things, but they’re not sure they’re ready to go back there yet. Maybe—?

At that moment there is a flurry of movement by their feet and something like a doll impacts with their legs. They look down, startled, to see the top of the shy little Subconite’s head, its arms wrapped around their good leg in a quick hug. Then it turns and dashes off to be with its fellow ghosts again.

It hardly felt like anything — just a weak little squeeze from a being made of fluff and fabric — but an embarrassingly large part of Moonjumper is struck dumb by the action. Snatcher hugged them, _once_ , after they helped that first ghost along into the afterlife. Since then he’s avoided getting within arm’s reach unless he’s threatening them, and even then Moonjumper always gets the impression that he would prefer to do battle at long-range. Before that, the last person who touched Luka was Vanessa; before _that_ , they couldn’t say. Possibly someone from university, through a handshake or pat on the shoulder.

Embarrassingly, their eyes feel hot. Are they _really_ getting emotional over a quick hug from a tiny little thing like that? As Moonjumper watches the group of bound ghosts pat their shy friend on the back, they’re forced to admit that _yes_ , they are. They hurriedly turn their focus towards the shopping list instead. Probonough isn’t on the table yet, but they do know of another small city that might have all these items.

Mind made up, Moonjumper calls forth a wave of Horizon magic and vanishes into thin air.

***

The city of Academia hasn’t changed very much in the past fifty years. The kinds of shops are the same, even if their specifics and locations have shifted over the years, and besides the fashion tastes the students of the most highly-respected university on this part of the planet are just like the ones Luka once knew. They’re all bright and studious and excited to be here, even through all-nighters and the high pressure to succeed.

It feels very strange for Moonjumper to walk these streets again. What has been half a year for them has been half a century for everyone else; they almost feel they should join in, walk back to their dorms with a group of students or meet with their tutor in one of the little coffee shops, before they’re repeatedly reminded of the many jarring little differences — not least of which is their own identity.

Instead Moonjumper sips on blessedly bitter black espresso and watches a friend group of strangers tease each other as they collect their things and head out, leaving the coffee shop quiet in their wake. Moonjumper stretches out their bad leg in the open space and wonders whether any of them are aware that two of their group are magic users. More than that, they wonder if _every_ magic user has the ability to sense magic in others.

Luka never had an ounce of magic in his blood, so seeing the living world through magical eyes clashes enough with their memories that they can stay grounded in the present ( _not Luka, just Moonjumper_ ). It’s also _bizarre_ — to use a sense something like sight but also distinct, to see red strings of different intensities wrapped or tied around people’s cores. It feels like the Horizon, but that they’re people-watching in a café while their leg twinges and they enjoy a dark brew keeps them equally grounded in _who_ they are ( _not the Horizon, just Moonjumper_ ).

All this is to say that after a rather disorienting few hours while they got used to paying attention to reality in a different way and tried to find every item on their list, Moonjumper feels more like _themself_ than usual. Even if they’re still rather uncertain _who_ they are, to know what they’re _not_ feels… well, more validating than they were expecting.

They can’t, however, just spend the rest of their day in this coffee shop, people-watching and wondering at the presence of magic. Moonjumper unrolls the scroll as they finish off their espresso. They’ve found most of the items on this list (yes, even the grappling hook) — about all that’s left is “books.”

The problem is that it’s been written on the list several times by different hands, none of which have specified _which kind_ of books. Moonjumper rubs at their jaw, considering. The writing varies widely in ability, from shaky letters that put them in mind of a small child to the script at the very top, which must belong to Snatcher himself. Perhaps he was a scribe before he died, or maybe he was upper class? Either way, Moonjumper isn’t sure what kinds of books to get for the ghost that likes to threaten to kill them on at least a weekly basis.

They drop a few coins on the table and head out, cane in one hand and scroll in the other. The university bookstore might have something for them, but they remember it being often over-priced as well as lacking in many child-friendly books. _Perhaps it’s worth checking out anyway_ , Moonjumper muses before glancing up at the corner on which they’ve arrived.

 _TIME’S END BOOKSTORE_ , the sign above the entrance announces. _Or perhaps luck is finally on my side_ , Moonjumper thinks with a faint smile, and pushes open the door.

Only to stop at once when they catch sight of the man at the cash register. He’s pale with a thick head of white hair and a beard, and his two blue eyes look just as startled to see Moonjumper as they are to see him. Besides an odd crease in the middle of his wrinkled forehead and some strange clothes, however, nothing about him would catch the eye of the average customer.

No, what has the Horizon jumping in Moonjumper’s chest is that the man himself is _also_ clearly born of the Horizon. The intensely red string at his core isn’t the loosely organized thread of the average magic-user, but is instead intentionally shaped in a way only possible through knowledge of the Horizon itself. He looks human — probably even more so than Moonjumper — but he’s just as much a piece of the Horizon as they are.

Or — perhaps _half_ of a piece? The Horizon is spacetime, and this person seems only to be made of —

“Tim,” the man says.

“I,” says Moonjumper. “Pardon?”

The man gazes at them, one eyebrow slightly raised. “My name is Tim. Do you know me?”

“I,” says Moonjumper again, “know your name is Tim? Now I do, I mean. I didn’t, before, because I, ah, didn’t know you.” Tim blinks slowly at them, like he’s trying to process the idiocy of Moonjumper’s words, and, scrambling for the safety of social conventions against the strangeness of meeting another piece of the Horizon in the middle of their old college town, they stick out a hand. “Ah, it’s… nice to meet you?”

Tim stares at their hand as Moonjumper marvels at their ability to continuously mess up basic social interactions — but then a smile cracks over the man’s face, transforming it into something bright and youthful, and to Moonjumper’s shock he _leaps_ over the counter in one fluid motion to grasp their hand in both of his own, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm.

“Why, it _is_ nice to meet! The two of us, meeting for the first time. Like strangers, us two. How wonderful! But strangers who will soon be friends, eh?” Tim winks broadly at Moonjumper, who has no _idea_ what their own face is doing right now. “Wonderful, wonderful! Now let’s see what we have here…”

Tim smoothly pulls Moonjumper in by the shoulder and plucks the scroll from their hand, unrolling it with a flourish. “Books, eh? Well, you’ve come to the right place, my friend. Let’s see…” The shorter man absently pats Moonjumper’s back as he reads. They still. Is this behavior… _normal_? “Alright. Alright! Let’s get you started.”

With that, Tim whisks Moonjumper away into the stacks and starts piling books into their arms from all variety of genres. “Definitely some children’s books to start — let’s see, they’ll love that new series of chapter books … Ooo, and something about native animals and plants, that’s always useful — ugh, no fairytales for you, I think—”

“Why not?” Moonjumper blurts from behind the growing stack in their arms, and Tim pauses to blink bemusedly at them.

“...Alright, I suppose _one_ book of fairytales, then, but we’re going with the one with the best illustrations — here — ooo, look here, this history is pretty easily digestible but poses some interesting questions about the right of kings, you absolutely _need_ this—”

Like this, Tim takes Moonjumper on a whirlwind tour of the Time’s End Bookstore and Moonjumper finds themself with three enormous, tottering stacks of books that rival their own height. They lean around one of the stacks, having lost sight of Tim at some point, though they can still hear him chattering — “this beginner’s guide doesn’t really take into account reality dilation, but it’s still a good starting point for magic like yours, and — ooo! You will _love_ this treatise on the philosophy of justice. Bit dry for my tastes but I bet you’ll forget time to finish it — here, take the author’s other books too—”

“Ah, Tim?” they call.

“Hm? Yes, MJ?”

“I think this is probably enough books for now.”

Somewhere behind the wall of books Tim chuckles. “Never thought I’d hear that from — but yes, alright, let’s ring you up. We’ll use the friends and family discount, obviously. Good thing you won’t need bags, eh? Not sure I even have enough…”

Over the course of two decades, Luka had needed to learn to see through liars and conmen who were threats to his kingdom. He was never particularly _good_ at it, but Moonjumper technically retains those skills today and Tim just… doesn’t set off any warning bells. Besides being somehow tied to the Horizon, he seems quite nice. He’s genuine with his recommendations (all of which strike Moonjumper as fairly well-selected for themself and the Subconites) and they suspect he’s making up deals and sales to bring their price down so that by the time Moonjumper hands over their gold they feel almost as if they’re cheating him.

“Well, there we have it,” Tim beams, and folds his hands together expectantly. Hesitantly, Moonjumper reaches out and touches each of the stacks, dematerializing them away for transport. Tim’s eyes crinkle merrily.

As Tim hands back over their shopping list, Moonjumper collects their nerve. “Ah, I wish to ask… how did you know which books I would want?”

“Magic!” Tim says with an exaggerated wink. “Well, but seriously, this isn’t the first time someone’s come in with a list like yours — a good shopkeep learns to read between the lines. Oh, I nearly forgot — take this pamphlet on grappling hook safety. It’s on the house, I just _know_ you’re going to need it.”

“Ah, um. Thank you,” Moonjumper says, flustered, and holds it carefully in their hands, unsure what to say. This strange man has been so kind and helpful to them when he had no need to be. It’s not that Snatcher is _mean_ , exactly, but it’s rare for him to go out of his way to help Moonjumper, and the past few months have been _difficult_ . It’s been easy to lose track of why they’re doing all of this: to alleviate some injustice in the world, yes, but also because they want to _do good_. In less than twenty minutes, Tim has reminded them that if they can help even one person feel like they do now, then their task is a worthy one. “Really… thank you. So much.”

“Of course, of course. Now, this has been a bit awkward, hasn’t it?” Tim says unapologetically, and Moonjumper is startled enough to laugh. Tim’s smile broadens. “What a delight. It was lovely to see you, Moonjumper, and I look forward to your next visit. Take care,” he says, and with a gentle hand on their shoulder guides them out of Time’s End Bookstore.

Moonjumper never even thinks to question that Tim knew their name without being told.

***

“Oh, it’s _you_ ,” Snatcher drawls upon Moonjumper’s return. They look up into the trees, where they spot him in his roughly humanoid shape leaning back amongst the empty branches. “Back and empty-handed. Didn’t my minions send you off with explicit instructions? And you couldn’t even do that.” He tuts.

Normally his attitude would have them scowling, but Moonjumper reminds themself of Tim’s positivity and the fact that the ghost’s criticism isn’t even valid. “Good evening, Snatcher,” they say, and with a wave of their hands call forth the mountain of shopping they completed today.

“LOOT!!” a chorus of young voices shout, and from a dozen different hiding places the Subconites descend, tearing through the purchases. Even Snatcher can’t hide his interest as he flows down the tree and approaches, glowing eyes wide.

“ _You_ got all this?” he asks, impressed, and Moonjumper smiles widely in confirmation. “Huh. Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought.”

“Uselessness,” it seems, is always Snatcher’s go-to insult. Moonjumper files that tidbit away and lets the comment slide off their back. “I found everything on the list. I don’t mind running errands for you, Snatcher, but you should know that in the future I’d appreciate it if you’d ask me in person. I’m not one of your minions, after all.”

“What, you think they did a bad job?” Snatcher asks slyly, and one of the little bound ghosts stiffens by Moonjumper’s feet where it had been reverently paging through the illustrated book of fairy tales.

“They did _wonderfully_ ,” Moonjumper says firmly, and the little ghost relaxes. “I just mean that while I am happy to help, you may not order me around. Simply ask, and I’ll do what I can.”

Snatcher snorts, but there’s no venom to it as he reaches into the pile and pulls out a sheaf of paper. “Maybe I could hire you to do it, then,” he says idly. “You certainly bought nice enough paper.”

“What, you mean like a contract?” Moonjumper says, startled, and Snatcher jerks his head up with a sharp-fanged grin.

“ _Exactly_ like a contract,” he practically purrs, and Moonjumper nearly _laughs_ . Snatcher thinks he can go toe-to-toe with _them_ , possessor of memories of the previous darling of Academia in contract negotiations? It’s _so_ unfair of them to let him fall into this trap, but then again, if the ghost himself chooses to act so _foolishly_ …

Moonjumper returns the ghost’s grin. “I would find that amenable, yes.”

To their surprise, Snatcher sticks a hand out expectantly, smirking. Unable to stop from smiling back, Moonjumper takes the fireplace-hot hand and shakes, firm and sure. “That seals the deal, then.”

Snatcher barks a laugh and goes back to gathering up his supplies. “You took the words right out of my mouth, kid. I’ll draft up a contract and we’ll continue this discussion later. Minions!”

The majority of the Subconites jump to clumsy attention. “Yes Boss!”

“We’ve got more traps to set! Gather up your things and let’s head out!”

“Yes Boss!!”

Snatcher himself shifts into his more monstrous shape to better carry his own items (including, darn him, that book on the philosophy of justice that Moonjumper had been looking forward to reading) and waits patiently for the last of the Subconites. The little thing embraces Moonjumper’s leg and lifts the book of fairy tales above its head, toddling off behind its peers, and with an atypically respectful nod Snatcher floats after them.

As Moonjumper stoops to pick up the remaining books on introductory magic, their eye is caught by the ghost’s retreating form. If they didn’t know any better, they’d almost say he looks _bigger_ than usual. The blues and violets that color his dark body ripple healthily with his movement.

Moonjumper straightens, the hand on their cane tightening, and wonders: what was it, exactly, that kept Snatcher busy today?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sniffly anxious child; MJ considers the fact that they have spent the past three months w virtually no physical contact w others; visiting a place one no longer fits into; thinking of oneself as "just" anything; Snatcher meanness.
> 
> 1\. i think after this mj and snatcher spend a few weeks in heated disagreement over their first contract together. mj's used to giving in but darn it, snatcher just makes them want to prove themself.  
> 2\. there are at least 1-2 more cut characters who will be making an appearance in this fic bc i've lost control of my life :)  
> 3\. i haven't seen dr who in a million years but i still think often about River Song and the concept of Time-Displaced Allies. that said, MJ is aro (waves lil pride flag) and Tim is more like an old/new best friend or maybe a favorite cousin. also the aliens weren't supposed to show up til Act 3 but as i have said i am just along for the ride here at this point, wheeeee  
> 4\. i work w kids when there's not a plague on and i wanted to share the healing power of being hugged unexpectedly by a small child. upon finishing the scene i realized i had managed to write basically Toddler Me as a subconite and nearly scrapped it in embarrassment BUT given that one of this fic's messages is HAVE COMPASSION FOR YOUR SELVES (BE THEY PAST PRESENT OR ALTERNATE)... their name is Joy, they like to help and hold hands and not speak, and probably they have a bow on the back of their lil cloak. they'll never be named in fic and won't be at all important, but fic writer can have little a semi-self-insert as a treat  
> 5\. thanks are owed today to tumblr users staarbles and twipsai for, respectively, drawing timmy n mj hugging (thus genuinely influencing the direction this fic will take bc... ah!!) and the (i believe original?) concept of tim & friend working at the Time's End Bookstore!  
> 6\. god, nothing compares to the humor of Child With Grappling Hook
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: MJ ran some errands, met a weirdo in a bookstore, and wondered what Snatcher does on his days off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

_Magic is an aspect of the soul. In its purest form it is a vivid, shocking red, but pure magic is virtually unheard of in the uncorrupted magic user. Instead it is present in relatively small amounts in a scant 2% of the population, lightly coloring the souls of its users from the natural soul-blue to indigo, violet and even, on the rare occasion, magenta._

_For hundreds of years, the most powerful magic-users have sought answers to the questions posed by the existence of magic: what, exactly, is it? Where does it come from? Why did it emerge in mankind, and what is the duty of those who hold it? A number of brave martyrs have even sacrificed their very souls in search of further knowledge, signing their essence away to more magical beings in the hopes of learning all they can for future generations. But these warlocks are bound by the unwritten rules of higher magic to keep the very secrets they wish to uncover._

_What follows is an in-depth analysis of what little information these warlocks have been able to successfully pass along, compiled in the hopes that future scholars will be able to make connections the author has not and elucidate, once and for all, the secrets magic contains._

In retrospect, the fact that Tim had recommended this treatise to Moonjumper because it would “for sure broaden your _horizons_ ” (insert an extra-hammy wink here) probably should have tipped them off that he wasn’t being serious. But the man is _always_ saying nonsensical things and winking like he and Moonjumper have a lifetime worth of inside jokes together — after a certain point they just have to take him at his word and hope to find a nugget of value in whatever book he talks them into buying.

And to be fair, the old bookseller _has_ been immensely helpful the past month or so as Moonjumper has started attempting some basic spellwork. Although he claims to be unable to do magic himself, he has a wide base of knowledge and can invariably point Moonjumper in the right direction for anything they’re curious about. To their misfortune, though, he also seems to delight in offering irrelevant input… such as this biased, human-centric essay on the deep _meaning_ of _magic._ They snort — as if the Horizon’s existence and bleed-through into this reality has any innate _meaning._

No, as interesting as this essay might be from a sociological standpoint, right now Moonjumper just wants to know how to stop overpowering their spells. Attempts at turning teaspoons into tablespoons — a supposedly basic spell even a child could do — have led to the creation of tableware accidentally sized for giants, and Snatcher’s mocking laughter every time he sees them is quickly starting to get old.

With a glance at the sun — going down, but not for another hour yet — Moonjumper pushes themself up off the porch and heads inside the old puppet theatre they call home.

Besides removing the dust and patching up the hole in the floor, they’ve left the front room much the same as it was. But the back room, sealed away from the rest of the cold forest by a sturdy wooden door, has started to feel quite comfortable to Moonjumper as they’ve settled in. After fixing the shelves — admittedly clumsily, given Luka’s past inexperience with practical woodworking — they’ve started piling their books beside all the old stage ephemera. They’ve found that the spare curtain makes a decent blanket and put together a few pillows from spare fluff and fabric. Though their embroidery skills are rudimentary at best, Moonjumper is looking forward to polishing up the throw pillows with some sewing — as cliche as it might be, they’re quite tempted by the idea of a little moon pattern along the edges.

They replace the treatise on the shelf, considering the growing stack of books before them and feeling… _warm._ This little crowded room is nothing like the crisp formality of Luka’s dormitory, nor the plush lines of Vanessa’s master bedroom, nor the full-empty vastness of the Horizon. It’s just… cozy, a little eclectic, made of borrowed and given materials. It’s just Moonjumper’s.

They can _feel_ how soppy the expression on their face is as they admire the little home they’ve made.

Which is when the door to their room _slams_ open, admitting a speed-blurred shadow that, upon pulling up short at the sight of the place, reveals itself to be a ruffled-looking Snatcher.

He looks around, glowing mouth agape, round eyes darting from neatly organized shelf to neatly organized shelf. Meanwhile the Horizon in Moonjumper’s chest buzzes with shock at the ghost’s sudden entrance, confusion blazing through them: why is _he_ _here_? Then, as Snatcher snaps his head to stare at Moonjumper, realization sparks and their own gaze is drawn around the room, recalling the terrible mess this place had once been — _and_ the fact that to bind the Subconites in physical forms, Snatcher would have needed to get materials _somewhere_.

As one, both point accusatory fingers at the other and exclaim: " _You!?"_

“Did you _organize_ this place??”

“Did _you_ destroy it?? It was a mess when I got here! Didn’t anyone ever teach you to clean up after yourself?!”

“I — I was in a _rush_ , kid, so sue me,” Snatcher blusters, but he has the grace to at least look embarrassed. “What are you even _doing_ here, anyway?”

“I—” _live here_ , but Moonjumper shuts their mouth quickly. Snatcher’s eyes widen anyways and he once more looks around the room, taking in Moonjumper’s makeshift pillows and stacks of books.

“Oh… my _goodness_ ,” he says, gobsmacked, and Moonjumper can’t help the bark of semi-hysterical laughter at the ghost’s atypically prim phrasing. “You’ve been—? I thought that when you leave you were going _home_.”

“I—” _have been_ , but Moonjumper grits their teeth and presses their hands to their eyes through the mask (and _goodness_ aren’t they lucky that they hadn’t taken it off earlier to read). What are they supposed to say? The only homes Luka ever knew are unavailable to Moonjumper, being statehouses or dormitories or occupied by the magic-crazed woman who killed him. This is all they’ve got.

The tiny ember of pride they’d had at making this place a home goes out like a candle because _this_ is _it_ . This is, truly, all they’ve got. Stolen body, stolen memories, stolen room in a frozen-over town that never belonged to them, filled with junk they’ve salvaged or bought because they don’t know _anything_ about being a person, much less a magical dead one. Luka’s life had been thoughtfully planned out for him since he was a child; Moonjumper’s is a fragile mess, bound together by red string, a sense of responsibility to the dead of Subcon, and their cowardly fear of nonexistence.

The Horizon magic that sustains them lashes out, excising squares and rectangles from reality as Moonjumper loses themself to this sudden spiral of despair. They’ve been such a _fool_ . The Horizon was never meant to be separate. Luka died by Vanessa’s hand, and maybe that was the way the story was supposed to end. Yet Moonjumper is continuing both tales long after they were meant to be over. How can reality allow them to exist? How can _they_ allow _themself_?

“I suppose you _have_ improved the place. Those broken shelves were becoming a bit of a nuisance.”

These stories were meant to end before Moonjumper’s even began. _None of this should be happening._

“And your organizational system is… fine. Useful, even. I guess.”

They curl their fingers tightly into their hair and hunch over, Horizon buzzing painfully in their chest, because maybe it was wrong of them but _what other choice did they have_ ? They wanted so badly to keep _being_ , to sate their curiosity about life, and Luka’s body was the only option. Even their guilt over this choice isn’t enough to make them regret it.

“Look, it’s really not that big a deal, kid. I mean, this place _is_ technically in _my_ forest, but you haven’t been _completely_ useless to me, so… I’m willing to look the other way. Just this once.”

But they have _no idea_ what they’re doing. The closest thing they have to a mentor is Tim, and they can’t even muster up the nerve to ask about his connection to the Horizon. Their own magic is overpowered and, frankly, terrifying. And they’ve decided, in a show of impressively poor decision-making, to throw their lot in with a murdering, soul-stealing ghost in an effort to make up for a tragedy that happened fifty years before they even came to be.

“Kid? You listening?”

Why are they _here_ ? What are they _doing_ ? What made them think that this, _any_ of this, was a good idea?

“Hey — _hey_.”

Hearth-hot hands land firmly on their shoulders and Moonjumper realizes with a start that Snatcher is _right there_ , human-shaped and brow creased with worry. Moonjumper blinks as the ghost gives their shoulders a little shake; Snatcher’s concerned, steadfast, even against the panic-driven magic eating away at his dark form.

The magic, _their_ magic — ghosts are _vulnerable to magic_ —

Moonjumper _shoves_ Snatcher away, stumbling back as the ghost crashes to the floor with a surprised “oof!” They pull their magic back, squashing it down til their form barely flickers with it, and shout incredulously, “Are you _mad_?!”

Snatcher gapes at them from his spot on the floor. “...Well, now I’m a little angry, yes,” he says, though mostly he sounds like he’s in utter disbelief about what's just happened.

“I _meant_ — that was _incredibly_ foolish! My magic can _harm_ you, or did you forget?” Moonjumper snaps, Horizon buzzing frantically in their chest even as they hold it back from affecting reality. “Why on _earth_ would you put yourself at risk like that??”

Snatcher clenches one hand around the other wrist, face darkening. “Well, jeeze, I don’t know,” he says, “maybe because you were _clearly_ in distress and someone needed to snap you out of it?”

“Maybe I was, but you shouldn’t have interfered when even _I_ don’t know what my magic is capable of!"

"Kid, you needed —

"I didn't — it was _not worth it_.”

Snatcher’s building glower _cracks_. He stares at Moonjumper, glowing eyes round. Moonjumper finds they can't meet his searching gaze for more than a moment. In the silence between them, they press a sleeve to their face to dry their traitorous eyes.

Finally, Snatcher clears his throat. “I,” he announces importantly, “am a big, bad, evil ghost. The idea that _you_ could hurt _me_ is ludicrous. And even if you _could_ ,” he continues, “you _haven’t_ . That little — _flickering_ thing you do? It might feel a little funny, but it doesn’t hurt.” The ghost narrows his eyes at Moonjumper. “Your presence in my forest is _not_ a threat — not to me, not to my minions, and not to any of the other ghosts here. Alright, kid? You get it?”

As he speaks Moonjumper begins to feel shaky and strange. Now they squeeze their eyes shut and focus on taking deep, calming breaths.

Once, a very long time ago, a young Luka had managed to secret a small snake into his room in the Probonough manor. He had kept it in a glass terrarium hidden between the window and the curtains, ensuring it was both properly warmed and well-hidden from his well-meaning parents, and he had _loved_ that little thing. He diligently provided it with plenty of fresh water, green hiding places, and the bugs he’d seen snakes eat in the wild. All was well until one day when he found that its scales were looking rather lackluster — and, within a few hours, that its skin was starting to _come off_.

It was then that he had run tearfully to his favorite tutor and confessed to her that he had not only snuck a snake into his room but that he had somehow _hurt it_ , and please could she help him make it better? She had allowed him to drag her into his room and show her the problem — at which she had crooked a small smile at the boy, desperate to help, who she had known since he was a baby, and explained: 

“You have not hurt it at all, Luka. In fact, you’ve done very well by it — it has grown under your care, and now needs to shed its old skin so that it can become stronger and bigger still. It might be a bit uncomfortable for the snake — look there, it’s rubbing its body against the rock to soothe itself — but it is a necessary part of its growth. You haven’t hurt it; you have helped it.”

Moonjumper feels a bit like that young child now, but they _definitely_ aren’t going to bawl about it. They may need a minute, but that’s _it_. They’re having a normal reaction to learning they haven’t hurt the strange, inhuman creature that has been in their life for the past few months.

“Alright, kid, I _am_ on a schedule today,” Snatcher finally says, and Moonjumper scrubs their face and finds that the ghost has gotten to his feet and is now leaning against the wall. His arms are crossed, but his normally mocking expression is muted by something they’re pretty sure might be concern. “You good?”

“Yes. I… thank you, Snatcher,” Moonjumper says thickly, pushing as much gratitude into their voice as they can. “Ah, and, um… what was it you were doing here?”

“Ha,” Snatcher says mildly, presumably because really _he_ should be asking _them_ that.

“Ha,” Moonjumper agrees tiredly.

Whereupon, to their bemusement, Snatcher stoops to scoop up one of the throw pillows. “Did you make these pillows yourself?”

Moonjumper blinks. “Yes?”

“The stitches aren’t bad. The cover’s a little plain — you might consider some embroidery around the edges,” he says thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands. “How attached are you to this one?”

“Ah, um. Not at all?”

“Good,” Snatcher says, and slices a quick claw through one of the seams, destroying it. Moonjumper unwillingly makes a distressed noise like a squeaky toy being stepped on; Snatcher snorts. “Grab a puppet form, two needles, and some dark thread; then get over here.”

Despite their confusion, Moonjumper obeys. When they return Snatcher has sat back down on the floor and is arranging the ex-pillow’s fabric in a familiar pattern. They hover beside him, uncertain, but the ghost doesn’t hesitate to grab their arm and yank them down beside him.

Moonjumper immediately squashes down on their magic again, but Snatcher casually (and, they're certain, intentionally) bumps a shoulder into their own as he points to the project before them. “Alright, the hands are a bit tricky so I’ll do those; you start on the cloak and I’ll show you how to attach it to the puppet form in a minute. Don’t forget to double-knot your thread, either, or I'll kill you for real, kid.”

So for a little while, Moonjumper obediently sews to Snatcher’s instructions and tries to process the past few minutes. They cautiously keep their magic close to them, but Snatcher doesn’t seem at all bothered by its presence as he skillfully puts the project together. Finally gathering their nerve, Moonjumper asks, “You’re… _really_ not hurt?”

“If I had a tailbone it might be bruised, but nah, kid, I’m fine,” the ghost replies easily. “Here, finish this off with a backstitch… Not bad. Alright, you can teleport, right? They’re waiting for us by the old florist’s place. Bring us there.”

“W-what?” Moonjumper squeaks, but Snatcher calmly scoops up their collaboration and hauls Moonjumper to their feet.

“I _said_ I was on a schedule, kid, and we lost time here. Make it up to me by getting us there faster.”

“Are you… _sure_?” Moonjumper asks, Horizon twisting as nervously in their chest as they twist the chains hanging from their wrists. “What if it hurts you?”

“Big, bad, evil ghost,” Snatcher reminds them dryly. “Just do it.”

But he doesn’t reach out. Instead he waits patiently for Moonjumper to collect themself as they bite their lip against their anxiety. But — he _said_ their magic didn't hurt, and they can't imagine that Snatcher would lie about that. He's certainly never held back on his criticisms before.

Finally, gritting their teeth, they bring a shaky palm down on Snatcher’s fireplace-hot shoulder; with a thought, the two of them away teleport away. 

Upon arrival, Moonjumper immediately checks over the ghost beside them. Snatcher blinks in brief disorientation, but he's already starting to grin. “There, that wasn’t so bad — _hey_!!”

“Aw man — _scatter_ !” shrieks a young voice, and Moonjumper looks up to see a pack of Subconites abandon the stacked tower of bomb cherries they were building and throw themselves into various hiding spaces around the village. Snatcher stalks forward and quickly _punts_ the cherries away, which shortly explode against the walls of nearby buildings, staining them with soot.

“You darn kids — these things are _dangerous_!” Snatcher yells into the suddenly empty square.

“Sorry, Boss,” come a few muffled voices, and Snatcher presses a monstrous paw to his face, sighing in exasperation. Despite the stress of the past hour or so, Moonjumper finds they have to bite their lip to hold back a chuckle.

“Alright… alright,” Snatcher mutters to himself, then waves a hand at Moonjumper, beckoning. “Get over here. Have you seen a ghost bound before?”

“Ah, no,” Moonjumper admits. They approach uncertainly, til Snatcher rolls his eyes and drags them in by the arm, positioning them so close beside him that they can feel the heat coming off his form. He shoves the sewing project into their hands.

“I’d say watch closely, but _can_ you?” Snatcher inquires drolly, and Moonjumper winces beneath their mask, pierced.

“Ah... How long have you known?”

“That you can't actually _see_ unbound ghosts? I've suspected for a while,” he replies, then grins mischievously at them. "But _you_ just confirmed it."

 _Oh_ , Moonjumper thinks, _you are_ so _irritating_.

“It makes sense," the ghost continues. "The living have something within them that could become a ghost after their death. You, made of a dead body tied with a weird soul, lack that natural connection mortals have with the dead. Probably your soul is working overtime to let you observe them at all, but it can’t do everything.”

“Right,” Moonjumper sighs as the Horizon confirms Snatcher’s suspicions as fact. It really would be nice if the Horizon would just _tell_ them things instead of waiting for them to puzzle it out. “That’s just wonderful.”

“Oh, boohoo,” Snatcher mocks cheerfully. “You’re an anomalous freak, what _ever_ could that be like. Look, just pay attention, alright? Maybe you’ll learn something.”

That fans the ember of that familiar irritation they get from Snatcher’s lack of manners. They’re about to retort when Snatcher cups his hands to his chest, bringing them to a swell of indigo undulating across his form, and then pulls them away to reveal trailing from each finger a fine, perfect thread of soul-blue.

Moonjumper _gapes_. Despite reading about it, neither they nor Luka had ever seen any part of a non-magical soul in real life, and here Snatcher is with strings of it in his hands. Yet he ghost himself doesn’t even blink at the miracle he holds, merely sticks his forked tongue between his teeth in concentration and begins to carefully weave the threads together between the empty air and the sewn form in Moonjumper’s hands.

As Snatcher works, the blue thread in his hands begins to change color. It's slow, at first, but as Snatcher’s movements grow more complex it quickens into a blur of shifting tones. The threads take on the same shade of yellowish light that glows from Snatcher’s eyes and the bound ghosts’ faces; the colors intermingle until, with a sharp movement, he _cuts_ the string and it falls to the floor in a pile of neon green.

At the same time, the doll in Moonjumper’s hands _animates_. Yellow light coalesces in its empty hood and it brings a mittened hand to its head and shoulders, feeling out its new form in awe.

Feeling similarly, Moonjumper gently sets it down on the ground, feet-first. It stumbles for a moment but catches itself quickly as it acclimates to having a body. Then it turns its glowing face up to Moonjumper — _Moonjumper_ , not Snatcher — and gives them a delicate curtsy. “Thank you,” it says warmly.

“Of course,” Moonjumper replies dazedly.

“WOOHOOOOO!!” cry at least ten other Subconites, and a stampede of bound ghosts leap onto their new peer, cheering and welcoming them. Moonjumper moves back to give them some space and notices that Snatcher has stepped back too; the ghost's expression is one of fondness, pride, and _gratitude_.

When he sees them watching him, though, he quickly pulls on his typical jack-o-lantern grin. “Well, kid? Any questions?”

“Are you _kidding_ ?!” Moonjumper yelps, throwing their arms out in disbelief. “Was that thread from stolen _souls_ ? How did you figure out you could even do that?? Why is there leftover string, and why did it change color? Is that _normally_ what binding a ghost looks like? How many times have you done it? You said you only bind them if they agree — have you been waiting on this one, or did it change its mind? If so, _why_? And—”

Snatcher bursts into laughter and Moonjumper covers their mouth, embarrassed, but their curiosity has caught like a flame and they _need_ to know more, to understand.

“One at a time, kid. First—” and he delicately scoops the green thread from the forest floor, wraps it into a neat little ball, and presses it into Moonjumper’s hands. “This is just leftover magic; I can’t use it, but maybe you can, so feel free to keep any more you find. Second— I knew it could be done, but I had to figure out how to bind them all on my own.” His grin remains, but his eyes soften.

“It wasn’t easy. It took years of experimenting to get it right, and each attempt took up my limited supply of souls. I was alone, with no idea what I was doing, no idea if what I was attempting would ever amount to anything, and no one else to even talk about these things with, for _so long_. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone… besides that Prince Luka, of course,” he adds dismissively.

“Right,” Moonjumper agrees weakly.

“Third — the ghosts dwelling here don’t easily notice changes, and it takes a lot to change their mind. But even they have realized that things have been different in the past few months. For the first time in practically fifty years, we’re finally making some progress. They’re _hopeful_ — and they want to be a part of it.”

Moonjumper feels a small mittened hand take theirs, and they look down to find that one of the Subconites has approached while its peers wrestle with their new playmate. The little ghost looks up at Moonjumper with a crinkle of fabric like a smile, then goes back to watching the chaos. It keeps its hand in theirs.

“Kid, _you_ have made these changes,” Snatcher says, a little stiffly. “I— that is, Subcon, as a whole, owes these developments to _you_ . Maybe we don’t know anything about you, and maybe you are a weird dead-soul-thing,” he continues, and Moonjumper winces beneath their mask. “But… _I_ know what it’s like to have to figure yourself out alone. I mean, I’ve done it before, I’m practically an expert at it. So if you… ah, needed any… _help_ , or anything…”

Moonjumper snaps their head around to stare at Snatcher — but the ghost is looking away, awkwardly fiddling with his wrists. Is he really offering—?

“Or not, whatever,” he says quickly and stomps into the middle of the rollicking Subconites. “Alright, minions, enough nonsense, let’s show our newbie the ropes. Literally — you’re gonna wanna know where to find the nooses, trooper. Let’s move out!”

As Snatcher directs his bound ghosts, his shoulders remains hunched up around his ghostly ears and he stubbornly refuses to make eye contact with Moonjumper. They watch him, a wave of bashful gratitude sweeping through them anyway.

Moonjumper's existence, however dubious their origins, has had a positive effect here. They’re welcome in this place by both Snatcher and the Subconites. Although they still don’t know what they’re doing, it looks like maybe they won’t have to figure it out alone.

Moonjumper steps forward and gently encourages their hanger-on Subconite into Snatcher’s formation. When they’re sure the strange ghost is paying attention, they carefully bump their magic-flickering shoulder against his.

“Thanks, Snatcher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: general self-worth issues; spiral of despair ft. self worth issues, the (INCORRECT) thought that they don't deserve to exist, guilt over body-snatching, anxiety about the future; (INCORRECT!) belief that one's existence is innately harmful; attempts to squash down something natural about oneself.
> 
> 1\. This Rude Ghost Is Secretly An Absolute Marshmallow  
> 2\. we have YARNS! it's a RLY fun challenge to try to balance the emotional arcs, the worldbuilding, and the necessary plot points to eventually reach the era the actual game takes place in -- hopefully nothing has clashed w canon too badly yet, ack!  
> 3\. the puppet room scene has been in my notes as "awkward spiderman points" since i thought this fic would be like 20k lmao. i did have to wrestle to write this one (lots of emotions, lots of exposition, ugh!) and i'm not the most happy w it, but whatever! my brain is all "write ch14?" "ok we have to write the other ones first tho" "NO write other chapters; ONLY ch14 >:[" like buddy. plz can we do this linearly. plz  
> 4\. after some thought i've changed this fic's rating to Teen. while i maintain kids CAN handle some death and difficult emotions, if they're going to read this then i'd rather they know ahead of time that the concepts might be above their station. also now i can swear in the notes >:3  
> 5\. do u like string magic?? i think it first set my brain on fire in the webcomic Barbarous, which if i'm remembering right starts updating again this week. if u like magic string, complicated emotions, and navigating tough relationships then i would HIGHLY recommend it :)  
> 6\. QUESTION: er is it hard confirmed that tim is timmy's grandpa or is that fanon? if it's canon-ish, how bad would it be if i just... completely ignored that lol  
> 7\. have i mentioned that i'm on tumblr as cartoonsaint? anon is on if u have questions and sometimes i post the terrible memes that escape from my brain :^)
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Snatcher realized Moonjumper was living in the old, run-down puppet theatre; together they helped bring a ghost back into the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

Moonjumper and Snatcher have hardly spent any time together when the question first arises.

It is after they have sent off Emilia, Jerome, Avery, Thomas, and Felicity, and it is after Moonjumper has learned that even if they don’t need to sleep they _do_ need to rest. As Moonjumper doesn’t yet realize that their leg will never heal, they're keeping it propped up against a frozen-over stump so as to elevate it as they sit in the snow and huddle into their cloak. Snatcher hovers by the frozen column containing Felicity’s body, just as her ghost had — at least until a few minutes ago, when she’d suddenly recalled her death with a cry and immediately passed on.

Luka didn’t know Felicity very well beyond the idle gossip he’d picked up from the shopkeepers in town. He knew that she had been the teenage daughter of the breadmaker and eager to take over the family business, though she had many years left before that role would be hers. When she had heard that the adults of Subcon were having an emergency meeting in the amphitheatre, as she told Moonjumper and Snatcher, she had naturally wanted to be included. But her father had forbidden it; she was tasked with running the shop in his absence so that the children running throughout town would be able to buy sweet treats even with the adults away.

Felicity had agreed and done her duty for just long enough that the majority of the adults had left. Then she slipped out the back, determinedly hurrying to catch some of the meeting herself.

In the end, she hadn’t made it. The ice had gotten her first.

“ _All_ the adults?” Moonjumper murmurs, because in all Luka’s time in Subcon he never knew such a gathering to occur. From Emilia’s account, they know that somehow news of Prince Luka’s death had surfaced pre-icing; they have yet to learn _how_.

But Moonjumper has a suspicion, one that has been smoldering in the back of their mind for a few days now. Subcon’s adults might send their children off while they meet in the town square for a formal discussion, but it’s rare that they would meet in the amphitheatre. That structure was ordinarily reserved for traditional purposes, such as yearly ceremonies and royal meetings… or, though Luka had never been present to see it used for this purpose, to formally send off a ghost.

“Could I have…?” they quietly wonder, then immediately chastise themself. They may have his body and his memories of life, but they _aren’t_ Luka, no matter how much it feels like they are. If the prince became a ghost — and certainly his death was traumatic enough that he may have — then not only was that not them, it had _nothing to do_ with them.

But if he did… If someone in the castle had found his ghost and smuggled it out... If they had alerted the local council and brought together the people of Subcon in the amphitheatre...

When Moonjumper had briefly thought themself a ghost, they hadn’t been certain how Subcon would react. Besides knowing little about the town’s treatment of the dead, they had wondered if Subcon’s loyalty to Vanessa would eclipse their desire to help Luka’s ghost process what happened to him and move on.

Yet it seems that perhaps they were wrong to doubt the townsfolk. “Maybe they cared for me the same,” they murmur. They’ll have no way of knowing, though, unless they can find a ghost who had actually been at the amphitheatre meeting before Vanessa’s ice killed them all.

“ _What_ are you mumbling about, kid,” Snatcher groans from his position by Felicity’s physical remains. “You’re seriously getting on my last nerve — and I don’t even _have_ nerves anymore.”

For a moment Moonjumper is torn between either tearing up at this dreadful reminder or _laughing_ , which they immediately feel terrible about — Snatcher is an innocent citizen of Subcon who _died_ , it’s totally inappropriate for them to find anything about his jokes regarding being dead _funny_. But Snatcher seems to read their feelings on their face and grins as he approaches.

“You need a longer break, or are we moving on? Because these ghosts sure are ready to _move on,_ themselves.”

“ _Snatcher_ ,” Moonjumper hisses, but they have to bring a hand up to cover their reluctant smile. “Don’t speak crudely of the dead!”

“Well who else am I gonna ‘speak crudely’ of?” He makes a sweeping gesture with his arms, encompassing the whole of the dead, frozen forest. “The closest thing we have to anyone alive here is… well, _you_ , kid.” He raises an eyebrow, challenging. “You want me to mock you?”

“You already do that enough, thank you,” Moonjumper daringly replies, and is rewarded with a peal of hoarse laughter from the ghost. _He may be a soul-stealing killer_ , they reflect, biting back a grin, _but at least he’s easy to get along with._

“I believe I’m ready to keep going,” they announce, carefully getting their injured leg under them. Snatcher doesn’t offer to help, merely watches from a small distance as Moonjumper gets to their feet and brushes the snow from their cloak. “We should think about doing the amphitheatre next.”

“ _No_ !” Snatcher snaps, and Moonjumper startles so badly they nearly lose their balance. They end up pressed against the frozen tree at their back, Horizon humming in their chest along with their panic as Snatcher loses all semblance of humanity and lunges within inches of their face, viper-like fangs backlit by ghostly light. “ No amphitheatre — why would we go _there_.”

The breath squeezes out of Moonjumper as they suddenly recall being trapped by another monster, a cold cellar wall at their back — but _no_ , this isn’t that. The only thing whose magic is altering reality is _them_ , and the being in front of them isn’t even touching them, just floating threateningly close.

They squash down on their own magic, just in case he tries to get closer — they don’t want to accidentally hurt him — and against their better judgment start trying to explain themself. “W-well, ah, the ghosts we’ve spoken to have all mentioned that a meeting was taking place there, which I know — ah, because of the Horizon — which I know isn’t typical in Subcon. If we speak to the ghosts there, they may be able to tell us what happened with, ah, Prince Lu—?”

“We don’t _need_ to know,” Snatcher hisses. “ Especially not _you_ — none of this is any concern of yours. You’re just here as long as you’re _useful_ to me.”

“Ah,” Moonjumper says numbly. _Of course. None of this has anything to do with_ me.

Snatcher scowls, then seems to realize his proximity. With a mistrustful glare at Moonjumper, he backs away, looking through the surrounding forest as he clenches a clawed paw around his wrist. “...Besides, there are no ghosts there anyway,” he mutters. “The stone walls blocked their view of the coming ice; they mostly died too quickly for it to be the type of traumatic that results in ghosts.”

“Ah,” Moonjumper says again.

“...Let’s get a move on,” Snatcher says lowly. He doesn’t look at Moonjumper as he points deeper into the forest. “There’s another one this way.”

Moonjumper wordlessly follows, head spinning and Horizon buzzing wildly in their chest. Snatcher keeps an eye on them, never fully turning his back as they travel through the woods.

It doesn’t occur to them to question how Snatcher knows why there are no ghosts at the amphitheatre. They never wonder about his sensitivity regarding the place. Instead, their mind is occupied by the question that will haunt them for the next few months:

After they help the ghosts here pass on, after they help Snatcher… _what happens next_?

***

“What about the children?”

It’s a couple months into their arrangement; Snatcher is leading Moonjumper through Subcon Village to their next target. The ghost, who is presently vaguely human-shaped, glances quizzically over his shoulder at Moonjumper. “Pardon?”

“The children — their… bodies,” Moonjumper says uncomfortably. “When their ghosts pass on. And, come to think of it, all of the bodies — what will you do with them? You can’t just leave them out in the open like this.”

Snatcher snorts and faces forwards again as they pass by the iced-over forms of two children embracing in mutual terror. Moonjumper winces, pulling in their cane to avoid it clacking against them. “Why shouldn’t I?” Snatcher says airily.

Moonjumper takes a step, processes, and misses their next one. Their cane catches them before they can trip and they _gape_ at Snatcher’s back. “ _What_ ? Why shouldn’t you _leave out the bodies of the dead_? Snatcher, surely you aren’t serious.”

“Dead serious, actually,” the ghost says lightly. “You need to see their faces to identify who they were, don’t you?”

“For now, perhaps,” Moonjumper sputters, “but afterwards — with those who have already passed on — well, we should bury their bodies, shouldn’t we? Why would you leave them out?”

“Why would I bother burying them?” Snatcher counters, coming to a stop. Moonjumper stops, too, staring. “They’re encased in magical ice, first of all — it’d take some serious magic to free their bodies, and I doubt you’re capable.”

Moonjumper clenches their cane, stung — how does Snatcher expect them to learn to use their magic without a teacher, or even a book? But the ghost continues, turning so that he is in profile and clasping his hands together in a mockery of real thought.

“Second, what does it matter to them now that they’ve passed on? It’s not like they’re around to think it disrespectful. It seems like an awful lot of effort to go to when they won’t even be around to appreciate it. Only _I_ would be.

“Which brings us to our third point: that I’d only be burying them for _my_ benefit, and I wouldn’t really benefit at all. Without them here I might forget — that innocent people died, that I have a duty to this place. No, burying them isn’t something that I deserve .”

“Snatcher,” Moonjumper says, breath catching painfully in their chest. “You can’t mean that.”

“You can’t tell me what I do and don’t mean, kid.”

“But — even if those things were true,” Moonjumper protests, “think about what you would want! You died here too — don’t you want _your_ body to be buried someday?”

Snatcher laughs, loud and unamused. “Kid, I don’t even know _which_ body is mine — and even if I did, you’re assuming that one day I’m _going_ to pass on.” He turns fully towards Moonjumper, smiling bitterly. “After everything I’ve done — all the people I’ve killed, the souls I’ve stolen — do you really think I deserve to?”

“But it’s not your fault, it’s—” _mine_ , but Moonjumper grits their teeth against it. Snatcher only did those things because Vanessa killed Subcon’s people, and because Luka couldn’t take responsibility after he died. Maybe if Moonjumper had been faster — even if they couldn’t have prevented this, maybe they could have _changed_ it. Maybe they could have taken over Luka’s duties so Snatcher wouldn’t have needed to.

But they can’t admit that to Snatcher without also revealing that they’re as good as Prince Luka themself, and who knows what the ghost would do with that revelation? He’s frank about his hatred of the man Moonjumper used to be; is his loathing stronger than the responsibility he feels towards the dead of Subcon? Could Moonjumper trust him to let them stay and finish their duty?

They can’t. So they can’t tell him the truth — that none of this is Snatcher’s fault at all.

Snatcher shakes his head, showing his fangs in displeasure. “Don’t blame her,” he growls, and Moonjumper realizes he thinks they meant to blame _Vanessa_ , not themself. “She didn’t want this. She would just want everything to go back to the way it was, before any of this happened.”

“So you’ll keep Subcon frozen in time, just for her ?” Moonjumper says, quite without meaning to. They’re shocked by just how bitter they sound — it wasn’t really _them_ she killed, after all.

Snatcher snarls fully, ghost-bright light shining in his furious eyes as he flexes his razor-sharp claws — but then he grits his teeth and turns away, hunching into himself and looking even more human than usual.

“It’s none of your business anyway, kid,” he mutters. “You don’t belong here… and isn’t that lucky for you.” The line of his back trembles for a second before he gets himself under control, whereupon he beckons to Moonjumper. “Let’s just keep moving.”

Cautiously, they approach. Snatcher waits til they are side by side (though he keeps a good few feet of distance between them), then begins walking again to Moonjumper’s pace. Like that, they move on.

But Moonjumper can’t help thinking that one day, they’ll have to come clean to Snatcher about who they once were. When they do, what will happen next ?

***

Several months after first meeting Snatcher, Moonjumper materializes in their usual spot in Subcon Forest and sets off a trap. They sidestep it with practiced ease; when the _next_ trap goes off, they dematerialize it into the Horizon they carry with them. The third trap they jab with their cane, letting it harmlessly capture a whole sackful of nothing.

“Not bad, kid,” Snatcher calls from above, and Moonjumper glances up into the trees to find the ghost already on his way down, a grin on his face.

“You don’t think these traps are, perhaps, getting a little old ?” Moonjumper asks, but they’re holding back a grin themself.

“What, things _growing old_ in Subcon? It’s like you’ve never been here before,” Snatcher replies cheerfully as he touches down on the path beside Moonjumper. “Besides, it’ll keep you sharp. You ready to start the day, kid?”

“I am,” Moonjumper confirms, clasping their hands together. “What’s on the agenda for this evening? Someone in town? The caves?”

Snatcher watches them for a moment silently. They tip their head, confusion sparked. “Snatcher?”

“Right,” he says, then nods firmly. “Right. Today, kid, we’re going back to the start — you remember that soldier lady? What was her name… Emilia?”

“Of course,” they say, but it’s as if their brain just received a rush of oxygen — they’re going _back_ ? Why? They’ve already cleared any nearby bodies of ghosts — did they miss one and Snatcher only just realized? Oh, what Moonjumper wouldn’t give to be able to _see_ ghosts like everyone else. Or could there be something else there? What could possibly bring them back to see Emilia?

“Relax, kid, I can practically hear your mind working from here,” Snatcher says and bumps his shoulder into theirs. “Bring us there and I’ll explain.”

“R-right.” Snatcher waits patiently, hands clasped behind his back, as Moonjumper collects themself and then grasps the ghost’s shoulder and brings them away.

“I’m fine, don’t even bother asking,” Snatcher says immediately upon landing. Moonjumper bites their lip to hold back the anxious questions; Snatcher huffs in exasperation. “Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

Moonjumper glances back at the frozen column containing the body of Luka’s old friend, but Snatcher tilts his head meaningfully and they follow his lead, turning their back on the clearing and walking deeper into the forest.

They walk silently along the path for a time, traveling farther than Moonjumper has gone since before they were Moonjumper. They can’t help glancing at Snatcher every few moments, curiosity burning steadily within them.

Finally, the ghost clears his throat. “Do you remember, ah… when you asked me about burying the bodies?”

Their mind flies back to that disagreement a few months ago. “I do,” they say cautiously, curiosity flaring into a roaring bonfire. “Why?”

“Well I haven’t made up my mind yet,” he says quickly, shoulders hunching defensively, “so _don’t_ ask me about that. But I told you that I wasn’t sure which body was mine.”

“I remember,” they say slowly.

“Well that’s still true,” Snatcher says, and Moonjumper graciously resists the urge to roll their eyes at the ghost’s waffling. “But I, ah, _do_ know where it is. Probably.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” the ghost says evasively. They walk together along the path as the woods start to thin out.

“...And where is that?” Moonjumper finally asks, praying for patience.

“Ah, well — that is—” Snatcher looks more uncomfortable than they’ve ever seen him. He gestures jerkily ahead. “In, ah, in there somewhere.”

They look ahead — and there, rising between the trees, is the amphitheatre. Moonjumper stutters to a halt not just at the realization that _this is where Snatcher must have died_ , but also the fact that the open structure looks as though an explosion of ice went off _inside_. Deadly shards of ice stab out between the columns, viciously jutting out around the stone bricks that mark the edge of the building.

Vanessa’s manor is so far from here, practically on the other end of the forest. For her magic to have acted like this from such a distance — she must truly have intended to kill every single person in Subcon.

“Jeeze kid, relax. You’re acting like someone died,” comes Snatcher’s nervous voice and Moonjumper snaps back to the present, staring wide-eyed at the ghost beside them. He looks _incredibly_ uncomfortable, eyes darting everywhere but never meeting their own, weight shifting, hands clasped behind his back.

“Snatcher,” Moonjumper breathes, “you—?”

“I’m not telling you so you’ll feel _sorry_ for me,” he snaps, but his nervousness makes him sound more frightened than dangerous. “I just — thought you should know before the next contract. That, that this place is pretty much the first thing I remember. After dying.” He winces, then sighs and looks up at the amphitheatre, his face a strange combination of bitter and nostalgic.

“My memories before I had any souls — they're strange and hazy. It's difficult to understand what's happening as a ghost, and next to impossible to put my memories of that time in any order, or even make sense of some of them." He frowns, then shakes his head like he's dismissing a nonsensical thought. "Some of what I recall I must have made up, or misunderstood. But after I took my first souls — _that_ I remember. Whoever I was, I must have been one of the Subcon citizens who sent off the ghost of Prince Luka." His face darkens at the mention of the name.

"I don’t know why, out of everyone there, only I became a ghost,” he says. “Maybe I saw it coming, somehow? I suppose it doesn’t matter. What matters is that there were dozens of souls in there, all severed at the same moment, and mine was the only ghost — and it absorbed them. _I_ absorbed them. Even if I was just a shade, with hardly any _self_ to speak of, the end result is that I took the souls of the people of Subcon — of the shopkeepers, of the soldiers, of the parents whose children’s own ghosts now serve me.”

The Horizon in Moonjumper’s chest _leaps_ at that, because they know _exactly_ what it’s like to have been something strange and without selfhood, making a complicated decision that would lead to _becoming_ someone. They know _exactly_ the guilt Snatcher carries, him for taking souls and them for taking a body and memories. They know _exactly_ the resulting responsibility and the duty to the dead. Moonjumper opens their mouth, almost too overwhelmed to speak —

“Anyways, I don’t want to talk about it,” Snatcher says primly, face scrunched up in distaste. “I don’t know which one of these bodies was mine, and I don’t care. I just thought you should know before we knock it down.”

“You — I—” Moonjumper sputters for a moment, thrown. “ _Knock it down_??”

“Yep!” Snatcher says brightly, and produces a neatly tied scroll from behind his back. Moonjumper takes it with numb hands. “I figure you can un-make the bricks or whatever it is you do and we’ll build them up somewhere else. No point in keeping this monument to death _frozen in time_ , eh?”

“I… _am_ sorry about phrasing it that way,” Moonjumper says dazedly as they swallow down their desire to _connect_ and instead go over the terms of the contract. It says they're going to use the bricks to make something as well?

“Water under the bridge,” Snatcher says dismissively. “Well, frozen water, anyway. Now are you ready to get this show on the road yet, or do we need to spend a week hashing out the miniscule and unimportant details?”

“What is it that you want me to build?” Moonjumper asks, summoning a quill.

“Ah, right,” Snatcher says awkwardly, and Moonjumper glances up at him in mild dread — is he about to knock the wind out of them _again_ . “You see, I’ve got this, ah, this fr— well, frankly I’m not sure what to call them, but they’ve been living in my forest for a while now and they’ve set up shop in an old, beaten-up tree house. Honestly it’s a little insulting when they _could_ be living somewhere nicer, so… we’re going to make them a new home.” Snatcher’s shoulders crawl up to his ears and he stares determinedly away from Moonjumper. “You know, if they. Wanted something a little more permanent. Or whatever.”

Moonjumper stares at the ghost, stunned. Snatcher hunches in even smaller, his scowl forced. “ _If they wanted_ . I don’t care. But,” he says, suddenly glaring at them, “if you say you don’t deserve it I _will_ kill you. My forest, my rules, kid.”

Moonjumper quietly closes their mouth. They dutifully sign the paper, waft it through the air to let its ink dry, then reroll it and hand it off to Snatcher. True to his name, the ghost snatches it from them and crosses his arms, turning away to both face the amphitheatre and avoid eye contact.

“Snatcher,” they say softly.

“ _What_ ,” he snaps.

In a few steps, they’re alongside him. He scowls and refuses to look at them, but that's alright. They gently bump their shoulder against his. “Thank you.”

The ghost’s face does something complicated. Then he sighs, sounding _exhausted_ , and puts a hand on Moonjumper’s shoulder, patting it gently. “You’re welcome, kid.”

As the duo start their work, Moonjumper wonders again about the future. So much is uncertain; there are so many variables they have no way of controlling for, and the Horizon certainly isn’t telling them anything. But with this one thing, they’re quite grateful to know what will happen next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: general self-worth issues; ghosts passing on and discussion of their death, including teenagers and children; reference to physical disability; morbid jokes; threats of violence; brief sensory flashback to Vanessa's cellar; discussion of human remains, including one's own.
> 
> ART ;-;!!!!!!!!: [WOAHHHHHHH. thank u violetsquare111 ;-;](https://violetsquare111.tumblr.com/post/622303736133517312/heres-something-i-made-of-moonjumper-at-least)
> 
> 1\. u KNO that snatcher makes them build the house next to the spoons they accidentally embiggened. "gaze upon ur failures kid" "snatcher please"  
> 2\. just a nice little overview of how things have changed between these two! i figure the first bit is between ch8-9, second bit between ch9-10-11(?), and third bit is post-ch11. i hope it's clear that as snatcher has gotten to know mj better, mj has also started to notice some things about snatcher -- particularly that the guy needs some help/kindness, just like they do. we'll get to that later -- for now they've found a new status quo that's positive for both of them. sure hope nothing comes along and screws that up :)  
> 3\. SPEAKING OF, we're about to enter another little run of proper plot!! i'm really excited lmao. as necessary as some of this montage-y stuff is to the story, i wanna talk about stuff happeninggg  
> 4\. snatcher like "u must be a level one friend to unlock my backstory" six months of hard emotional labor and bonding later "CRAP" (and then he doesn't even give a wholly accurate backstory bc his body isn't IN THERE it's RIGHT NEXT TO HIM but neither of them KNOW......... it's fine. it's fine. they're both doing their best.)  
> 5\. once they remove the column bricks and the ice, the amphitheatre will make a pretty decent arena-type-thing that snatcher will probably find suitably dramatic for boss battles :)  
> 6\. your comments are a delight and i'm real pleased people like this story kjdlsfljdf. OK BYE.
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: montage of two emotionally volatile idiots becoming friends; accidentally incorrect backstories; Snatcher offering MJ a more permanent home. if they want. NOT cuz we're friends or anything i DEFINITELY H8 U ok!! >:V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who reached out about the incomprehensibility of some plot points last chapter! Sometimes I forget other people are also reading this lol. It's since been reworked some to hopefully clarify the confusing bits, but to summarize: shortly after his death, Luka's ghost was found in the manor (who by?) and brought to the amphitheatre to be sent off by the adults of the town. Vanessa's ice arrived and killed all of them before they could, leaving Luka/pre-Snatcher as the only ghost in a room full of fresh souls. He absorbed all of them and thus gained the kind of consciousness/awareness the rest of the unbound ghosts lack. Of course, as was previously established in this fic (hopefully clearly, ack!!), ghosts don't remember their past lives unless thoroughly and intentionally prompted -- Snatcher does not know he was once Luka, and assumes he was just an average Subcon citizen who got un/lucky.
> 
> If you have any other questions as we move forward, please don't hesitate to ask!! These are all first drafts posted like IMMEDIATELY after I write the last word, but it's important to me that this story's plot points be uh comprehensible haha. Clarification is like THE THING that I will edit these for. So thanks again :)
> 
> See end notes for content warnings.

“You  _ promise  _ you won’t laugh?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, kid,” Snatcher says.

Moonjumper squints suspiciously at the ghost casually leaned up against the door frame of their nearly-complete house. “For some reason I don’t find that very reassuring.”

“That’s probably wise,” Snatcher replies, but he dutifully crosses his heart in an X, smirking. “Come on, kid. You’ve been reading those magic books for months — surely you can do a simple shrinking spell.”

Moonjumper bites their lip, considering the enormous fallen log in front of them. All too often they’re still overpowering their spells, but they’ve found that sometimes — if they concentrate on letting out only the _tiniest_ bit of magic — they can complete a spell nearly as written. And if they could shrink the log just a little bit, it really would be perfect as the support beam for their new house’s roof… “Alright,” Moonjumper decides. “Stand back.”

Snatcher obediently steps behind the stone brick wall, peeking his head around the corner to watch. The Subconites are far less graceful, some diving for cover like they’re under attack by bomb cherries. Moonjumper bites their lip to hold back a smile at their antics, then takes a deep, steadying breath, holds their hands over the fallen log, and calls forth their magic.

Ethereal threads of pure red flash into existence. They trail delicately from their fingers, unaffected by the wind that blows through Subcon and obedient to their owner’s wishes. With utmost concentration, Moonjumper arcs their fingers into the proper spell-casting position and repeats the incantation from the book that they’ve long since memorized. Their magic barely twitches in response — good, no need for it to overreact — and slowly, gently entwines the log before them. Now if everything goes according to plan —

In the space of one breath, the log practically vanishes. Moonjumper yelps and severs the magic immediately, but the damage has been done: they bend over, feeling absurdly crushed, and pick up the finger-length twig.

“Pfffft ahahAHAHA—” Snatcher throws his head back, cackling, and several of the surrounding Subconites peek out as well, giggling. “It’s a  _ toothpick _ — HAHAHA—”

“You promised you wouldn’t laugh,” Moonjumper reminds him, dismayed. They really thought they had it this time.

“You’re right, I  _ did  _ swear on my life…” Snatcher cuts off with a chuckle, raising his arms in a shrug. “Guess I’ll die,” he says mockingly, then slaps Moonjumper’s back and bursts into laughter again.

Moonjumper’s attempt at a scowl is interrupted by an uncontainable snort — they cover their mouth but  _ darn _ the ghost, he’s actually quite funny.

They flick the ex-log at him. The twig bounces harmlessly off his forehead, and Snatcher erupts into another peal of infectious laughter. Moonjumper wheezes, losing the fight to remain irritated, and can’t help but join in; they lean against Snatcher, utterly failing to maintain their poise.

“BOSS!”

As one, Moonjumper and Snatcher turn towards the approaching Subconite. It waves its arms frantically as it speeds along the forest path. “Boss!! Come quick, we’ve got a—”

“Why,  _ HELLO _ THERE,” Snatcher just about shouts; Moonjumper jumps, startled, and stares at him. “Was there something you wanted to tell the  _ two of us _ , or was it something that could  _ wait until later _ ?”

The Subconite skids to a halt. It glances back the way it came, nervously twisting its cloak. “Right!! Err, um. I, I guess it could wait? Er, no, actually, Boss, it’s kind of time sensitive—”

“That’s  _ right _ !” Snatcher announces, once again much louder than strictly necessary. Moonjumper takes a bemused step away from him. “I  _ completely  _ forgot, but we, ah, need the, theeeee… oh, the  _ list _ !”

“The what now?” the Subconite asks, and one of its nearby peers smacks its shoulder. “Ow! What was that for—?”

“That’s  _ right _ , the  _ list _ !!” its friend says loudly. “ _ Remember _ ? Which one of us has the list?”

The many bound ghosts murmur amongst themselves for a moment until one raises a little fist in the air, clenched around a crumpled scroll. The little Subconite is carried forward to Moonjumper and Snatcher’s feet where it shyly hands off its list to a Snatcher who is growing less and less human by the moment.

“Right, here you are,” Snatcher says, shoving the scroll into Moonjumper’s hands. “Go do me a favor and get this stuff now, will you? I, ah, just remembered we  _ really _ need these supplies.”

“But… it’s only been three days since my last trip,” Moonjumper notes even as they dutifully unroll the scroll. They blink down at its contents. “...And it just says we need the next book in that children’s mystery series.”

“Uh,  _ Boss _ ,” hisses the Subconite who had entered so dramatically.

“Well, ah, we also need traps!” Snatcher says loudly. Moonjumper stares at him, a little alarmed. His grin is quite wide and quite…  _ nervous _ ? “Lots and lots of traps!”

The embers of suspicion in the back of their mind stir. “Hang on,” they say, “what do you need more traps for? You’ve already got them set up all over the forest, and I’m the only one who sets them off nowadays.”

“Ah,” says Snatcher, “well. You, ah, you see—”

“ _ Boss _ ,” the messenger Subconite repeats.

“I…  _ am  _ the only one activating the traps lately, right?” Moonjumper asks, horror sparking to life in their chest. They haven’t seen anyone come into the forest since they began living here, but Snatcher sometimes — sends them away… “You haven’t been sending me on errands when you’re stealing souls…  _ have you _ ?”

“Ah,” Snatcher says. He’s lost his shoulders as he’s morphed into his more monstrous form, but still manages somehow to hunch them up. He’s curled over, made himself small, and looks torn between guilt… and  _ shame _ .

“Snatcher…?” they ask, suddenly concerned for the ghost, and he cringes.

“Kid,” he says, then sighs and presses his monstrous paws to his face. “I… I  _ need  _ to keep taking souls so I can keep this place safe. You understand that, right?”

“I do,” Moonjumper says, and as much as the idea makes them queasy they  _ do  _ understand its necessity. But they have knowledge from the Horizon that might help, and by hiding this from them Snatcher has prevented them from helping him. “But—”

“I just—!” Snatcher groans into his paws. “I didn’t want you to have to  _ see it _ , kid. It’s not something I’m exactly proud of, you know? And it’s not pleasant, seeing someone die. You don’t deserve to have to see that.”

“But neither do you!” Moonjumper exclaims. Has Snatcher honestly been trying to _protect_ them this whole time? This ridiculous ghost — “And I told you that even if my connection to the Horizon is presently limited, I have knowledge that could help — namely knowledge of a method to take a person’s soul _without_ killing them!”

“I — you — I…” Slowly, Snatcher pulls his paws away to stare blankly at Moonjumper. At the look on his face, a grin starts to pull on their own. “I… wouldn’t have to kill anyone?”

Trying to access and understand the Horizon with a physical, human brain is both difficult and painful, but Moonjumper is positive that they know how to remove a soul without damaging the threads tying together the rest of a living being. “You wouldn’t have to kill anyone,” they confirm.

Snatcher stares at them for a moment longer, shock and awe warring for dominance on his face. Then: “Ha — ahahaha!!  _ Kid _ !!” and he  _ launches  _ himself off the ground, forgetting his monstrous form and tackling Moonjumper with human arms. Moonjumper drops their cane to catch him in a hug, laughing themself at the ghost’s clear elation as Snatcher lifts them off the ground in a wild twirl. “You  _ brilliant  _ thing —”

“Ummm, er,  _ Boss _ —” says the messenger Subconite, but they both ignore it as Snatcher sets Moonjumper back on their feet and returns their cane to them, still laughing.

“I can’t believe you would just keep that from me — but of course  _ you _ would! You really thought you’d just  _ wait til it came up  _ in polite conversation or something?”

“It never even occurred to me to do otherwise!” Moonjumper admits, embarrassed but still grinning. “And of course  _ you  _ would rather send me away than just admit what you were doing—”

“It wasn’t any of your business!” Snatcher blusters between chuckles. “It was never your responsibility, kid, why would I tell you?”

“And it was never yours, either — thus if you think it’s  _ your _ responsibility, it’s just as much  _ mine _ ,” Moonjumper counters, patting the ghost’s shoulder with a smile. “I’m in this  _ with you _ , Snatcher.”

Snatcher laughs wetly, scrubbing at his luminous eyes. “Kid—”

“I knew the legends were full of it,” says a gruff, unfamiliar voice, and in unison Snatcher and Moonjumper  _ yelp _ .

Standing right there on the path is a slouching young man with an impressive mustache, not much older than twenty and  _ barely  _ dressed in a stockingless pair of bloomers and an unbuttoned shirt. The Subconites have all vanished, leaving Snatcher and Moonjumper alone to be glared at judgmentally by the new arrival. The young man crosses his arms, scowling.

“ _ This  _ is the mighty Soul Snatcher?” the youngster scoffs, dismissively jutting his chin at the startled, human-shaped Snatcher. “He doesn’t look scary in the least. And what’s he doing, hugging some pathetic loser in a mask? Puh-lease.”

“Ah,” Moonjumper and Snatcher say in confused unison. Snatcher glances at them; they shrug, baffled, and he takes charge, clearing his throat.

“Was no one going to  _ warn me _ that our newest victim hadn’t actually stepped into a trap?” he calls into the empty forest, irritation clear.

“Boss, I  _ tried _ ,” comes the exasperated response from some hidden location.

“They did,” another hidden Subconite confirms; several others voice their agreement. Snatcher grumbles to himself.

“That settles it,” the youngster mutters. “Aliens  _ must  _ be scarier than any fairy tale monster.” And he casually turns his back on the two of them and heads back up the path towards Subcon’s exit.

“...Well, good riddance,” Snatcher says, annoyed. “That’s not great PR, but I suppose it might bring other victims into the forest. Can you believe how disrespectful kids are these days?”

“You’re just going to let him go?” Moonjumper asks, disbelieving. They just established that Snatcher could get souls without killing a person, and now he’s letting a prime experimental subject walk away?

“Well, yeah,” the ghost replies, nonplussed. “He didn’t walk into any of my traps. What do you expect me to do?”

“Oh for goodness’ sake—” For once Moonjumper doesn’t bother thinking through spells or theories on magic; they just whip a hand out, red threads flaring to life, and lasso the youngster round his middle. With a quick tug, the threads neatly bind the young man’s arms to his bare chest and pull him back til he kneels before them, wide-eyed and trapped.

“Oh,” says the youngster.

“Woah, kid,” says Snatcher, impressed.

“Ah,” says Moonjumper, and nearly releases him right then and there. It was so simple, so  _ easy _ , to bypass the human-designed spells and just do what their instincts told them — but it was also so  _ inhuman _ , more like a creature made of magic than anything that still sometimes forgets it technically isn’t human. A part of them is still so afraid of that, of magic-red eyes and instinctually made ice and tight restraints —

But this isn’t that. Snatcher, their friend, stands next to them in support and acceptance, and even if he’d never admit it he  _ needs their help _ . So they hold their magic firmly, keeping the youngster trapped, and after a calming breath beckon Snatcher over.

“Alright,” they say. “So you once told me that you remove a person’s soul by going through their body, correct?”

“That’s right. I can just tear it right out of them,” Snatcher confirms, observing the threads of their magic with interest.

“Um,” says the youngster uncertainly.

“Please be quiet,” Moonjumper tells him. “What you’ll be doing, Snatcher, is not dissimilar to what you’re used to, but it is on a smaller scale. A living being is made up of three things: a living body that anchors them to their past, a consciousness that experiences the present (and may eventually become a ghost), and a soul, the essence of hope and future possibilities.

“Instead of tearing through all three of those, you will just be severing the ties connecting the soul, thus freeing it for your use.” They mentally rehash everything they’ve just said, confirming with the Horizon that they are so far correct. “Does that make sense?”

“Sure,” Snatcher says, “but, ah.  _ How _ am I supposed to do that, kid?”

“If you go slowly, you should be able to feel it out with a little practice,” Moonjumper says thoughtfully. “Here, give it a try.”

“Aaaaalright,” Snatcher says doubtfully, and to the totally silent young man he reaches his hand. It goes  _ through _ his chest, disregarding his shallow, panicked breathing. Even as Snatcher takes his time trying to sever the very threads of his being, the youngster doesn’t say a word — he just watches, bound by Moonjumper’s magic, eyes wide in terror. 

They swallow against their sudden, visceral sympathy — because this young man will be  _ fine _ . The Horizon confirmed that this won’t kill him; after this frankly terrifying encounter, they should be able to pick him up and send him on his way, living and breathing just the same. Still, they bite their lip to stop the apology that wants to spill out — they can’t distract Snatcher. For Subcon, this is  _ necessary. _

“Kid,” the ghost finally says, sounding frustrated, “I’m really not getting this.”

“Oh, just — try to  _ see  _ it — here—” They press a hand to his shoulder, meaning to direct his attention, but then Snatcher blinks his eyes open  _ red  _ and  _ strange  _ and Moonjumper immediately knows that something is about to go wrong.

“Oh! I see,” Snatcher says, and plucks out a twisted rope of bright blue threads that gives off the faint echo of a scream; the youngster sinks to the ground like his strings were cut. Moonjumper drops their magic like it burns. Snatcher’s eyes return to their typical ghost-yellow and he grins, triumphant, as he nudges the fallen figure with a toe. “Check it out, I can’t go through him — he’s still alive. Way to go, kid!”

Moonjumper drops their cane and falls to their knees, checking the youngster over with shaking hands — but he’s breathing. His pulse isn’t even racing, heart beating steadily and calmly like this is a normal day.

They turn him over, hoping… and find his eyes and expression blank. There’s no sign of his previous attitude anywhere as he vacantly gazes past Moonjumper into the skies above.

“I — We — I messed it up,” they say, certain down to their very bones.

“What? No, look — he’s fine. See?”

At Snatcher’s “look,” the youngster had turned his eyes to the ghost with utmost focus. Snatcher waves at him; he tracks the ghost’s hand with concentrated intensity and says nothing.

“No, something’s wrong,” Moonjumper says, Horizon humming anxiously within them. “I don’t understand — he’s alive, but it’s like he’s…”

“...soulless?” Snatcher offers.

_ Oh no _ , Moonjumper thinks.

“Come on, kid, it’s probably fine. Here, get up and we can — uhhh…”

Snatcher trails off as the youngster immediately gets to his feet and stands there, eyes trained on the ghost like he’s waiting for orders.

_ Oh no _ .

“...Turn around,” Snatcher says slowly.

The youngster obediently turns in the other direction. He does nothing else, says nothing else.

“...Huh,” Snatcher says.

“We need to put this right,” Moonjumper says. Their chest squeezes painfully. “Without a soul, he’s not a person anymore. He’s just a— he’s—”

“A braindead servant,” Snatcher says pensively. “Huh.”

Something like dread pulls their gaze in Snatcher’s direction. The ghost is standing there, soul still in hand, expression considering as he looks into middle distance. “Snatcher, we need to put him back,” they say. Their voice rings in the silence of the dead forest.

“Hang on a minute,” Snatcher says.

“ _ What _ ?” Moonjumper stares at him. The ghost bites his lip, brow creased in thought. “Snatcher, you can’t be serious. We need to give him back his soul.”

“I’m not sure  _ we  _ need to do anything,” Snatcher replies, and the air around Moonjumper warps and jumps at his words. “Minions,” he calls into the woods; several pop their heads out. “Bring me the biggest basket we’ve got and fill it with cherries.”

“What are you doing?” Moonjumper breathes as several Subconites dash off. “Snatcher.  _ What are you doing? _ ”

Snatcher ignores them, pointing at the soulless young man. “You, listen up.” The living body obediently responds like a marionette to its master. “Go with them. When the basket is full, take it to the manor and give it to the princess.”

“The — you’re sending him to the  _ manor _ ?!” Moonjumper demands, Horizon spiking. “You — why are you—?  _ Why are you sending him to her _ ??”

“Because I’m unbound, so I set the bomb cherries off,” Snatcher says. His voice is a little vacant as he watches the youngster turn and walk after his minions. “And she doesn’t like to see the bound ghosts — they remind her of what happened.”

“But why send him at all? Why with bomb cherries?” Moonjumper’s brain works furiously — Snatcher? The manor?  _ Vanessa _ ?

“Nothing else grows here nowadays,” Snatcher says matter-of-factly. “She’s got to eat  _ something _ .”

Reality, previously a broken, malformed thing around Moonjumper, abruptly stills. They stare at the human-shaped ghost before them. Snatcher doesn’t even look up, still thoughtfully running a hand over his newest soul, one hip stuck casually out like it’s any other day.

“You’re. You’ve been. Giving her food,” Moonjumper says, strangled like a chain is holding their head up.

Snatcher’s gaze trails over to Moonjumper, sharpening. “Of course I have,” he says, low and dangerous. “I’m not going to let her  _ starve _ to death.”

They remember hunger pains, having only her cookies to eat, their body so scarily skinny and never able to recover.

“She k-killed,” Luka says — but they’re  _ not him _ — but they  _ remember  _ — “She killed all of Subcon. She killed h-her prince. She killed  _ you _ . And this whole time, you’ve been sending her food? Keeping her comfortable?”

Something deeply complicated flashes across Snatcher’s face, but the effort of suppressing their magic has Moonjumper shaking so badly that they aren’t able to read it. Then Snatcher pulls himself up to his full monstrous height and  _ sneers _ at them, fangs flashing in the yellow light.

“I wouldn’t expect a dead thing like you to understand,” he says scornfully. “ _ You _ were never alive to know what death is like. And you weren’t here when she lost herself — she never wanted to hurt them, and she won’t hurt that kid now.” He looks so completely, assuredly,  _ foolishly  _ sure of that fact. “You’re seriously overreacting, kid, and you should remember that you’re only here because I don’t care to get rid of you. That’s  _ it _ .”

Moonjumper stares at him, barely holding their form together against the racing of the Horizon in their chest. Snatcher thinks she wouldn’t hurt anyone. He thinks she never  _ meant  _ to. He thinks they don’t know anything about the terror of a slow death, of starving and knowing they could have prevented it if they had just been  _ better _ , smarter and more compassionate and a better fiancé. He thinks, even after everything she’s done, that she still deserves to be taken care of.

Moonjumper laughs. They can’t help it; it spills out of them, wild and disbelieving and more bitter than they ever let themself be. The forest echoes with it until Subcon is filled with their laughter, loud and buzzing and inhuman.

Finally, they calm. Moonjumper breathes heavily, fists clenched around the chains that drip from the shackles still round their wrists. Snatcher’s sneer has vanished; his face is carefully expressionless as he watches them for what they’ll do next.

“You’re right, Snatcher,” Moonjumper says quietly. “I  _ don’t  _ understand. But just as you have your duty, I have my own.”

They lift their head and  _ smile _ . “I cannot let her hurt anyone else.” Moonjumper loosens their hands to let their chains drop, swinging from their wrists. “Sorry, Snatcher.”

“I don’t—” Snatcher starts, and Moonjumper summons their magic and  _ whips  _ it at the ghost, encircling him and pulling taut with all their might. He cuts off with a pained gasp that has Moonjumper wincing in sympathy, but he’s threatened to kill them so many times and they don't know how long they’ll be able to hold him so they pull tight  _ again _ , praying both that it will be enough and that it  _ won’t be _ .

But Snatcher hunches up in the bonds of their magic and wilts, shrinking into human shape and breathing harshly against the pain. He releases the tangle of soul to clutch at his wrists, like making himself small will stop their magic cutting into his form, will stop the agony that they’re causing him. They half expect it to be a trap — he’s killed so many magic users before, hasn’t he? — but he doesn't even react when Moonjumper darts forward and snags the soul off the forest floor.

They hesitate — this whole scene feels so wrong, so against everything they’ve made of themself, but then Snatcher looks up.

The naked fear on his face  _ hurts _ . But more than that, it reminds them of their victim’s expression when they had helped Snatcher take away his very essence. It reminds them of themself, when they were just a piece of the Horizon, terrified that they would burn up before they ever really got to be.

“I’m sorry,” Moonjumper says, and with soul in one hand and the staff Snatcher gave them in the other, they turn their back on him and run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: general self-loathing issues; morbid jokes; lying about important things; physical restraints; explicit and non-consensual soul-stealing/experimentation (yikes!!); zombification/lack of will; brief, mostly sensory flashbacks to abuse, particularly the starving parts; typical death/murder talk; Snatcher cruelness; victim defending abuser (babe we GOTTA break u of this habit); hurting ur friends.
> 
> 1\. chuckles. they're in danger  
> 2\. but look! /points at beginning of chapter/ they were so happy... u ever think about the james baxter-animated hug from steven universe? cuz i think about it all the time  
> 3\. ugh this chapter took a LOT of thinking to bring it to where it is today. it could so easily have been grim and unpleasant in a way i'd prefer to avoid - hopefully as it is now, it's uncomfy but not unbearable. the good news is Youngster will be ok and mj n snatcher'll figure out a better, less-damaging way to take a soul in the future. (HAVE HOPE, MY FRIENDS!)  
> 4\. i almost continued this chapter a bit longer, but JEEZE everyone was just having SO many emotions....... i need a break. plus maybe it makes more sense for this chapter to end on mj and snatcher like this. idk. i'm like, laying on the floor sad about these two or whatever, plz don't expect me to Think Good.  
> 5\. in case i forget in the next chapter notes: the Youngster gets better (from... the whole soul-stealing thing...... ye) and grows old, giving fewer and fewer shits about other people as he goes and thus wearing less and less clothing. despite this cryptid-like experience he never loses his interest in aliens and probably makes mini-mobiles about his theories, which are left around Subcon. given his eventual age it will no longer make sense to call him the Youngster, so folks call him the Oldster instead :)  
> 6\. REMINDER: mj's first thought-of-which-they-were-conscious was laughter. they have luka's tendency to be embarrassed and try to cover their mouth, but laughing is one of the things that makes them feel most like Themself. just something to consider, in general and maybe in reference to the next chapter :) but who knows. whatever.  
> 7\. next up: .......vanessa!! *OMINOUS THUNDER*
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: MJ and Snatcher had a laugh; a young Oldster arrived on the scene to mock them; an attempt at removing a soul without killing the victim went disastrously; MJ trusted their magical instincts and temporarily trapped Snatcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might recall that way back in ch2 I mentioned there'd be two more moments adjacent to violence in this fic. This chapter contains one such moment. It also contains Vanessa. Take care, my loves!
> 
> See end notes for more detailed content warnings.

Moonjumper has not seen the manor since… well, since they woke up there.

In their first month or two together, Snatcher kept them far away from the place. It took time for him to begin trusting Moonjumper and ease his restrictions; it’s only in the past few weeks that he has truly let Moonjumper feel at home to wander Subcon to their heart’s content. It just so happens that their heart’s content involved _never seeing the manor again_ , in part to avoid the reminder that Vanessa was so close.

It was paranoia to think she might spot them through the windows and recognize them despite the cloak and mask. It was absurd to believe she could do all that through the ghostly fog that covers Subcon nowadays, particularly when it makes it so difficult to even see the manor itself from any distance. Still, Moonjumper had stayed away, telling themself that they were just being prudent.

Now, they find the soulless youngster mechanically approaching the bridge leading to the royal home, weighed down with an enormous basket filled with cherries. The manor looms before them. Even after all this time it feels the same, unchanging and heart-wrenchingly familiar.

 _But you don’t have a heart_ , they remind themself, Horizon buzzing in their chest. _Not a beating one, anyway. You aren’t him: you never lived here, you never died here. You can handle this_.

The youth is just at the edge of the bridge; Moonjumper grips their cane tight and puts on a burst of speed, calling, “Stop!!”

And he does, immediately, swaying a little from the sudden shift. Moonjumper’s gut lurches and they glance down at the luminescent blue skein they carry — his soul. They have his _soul_. With this in hand, he’s as good as their puppet.

They carry their own body to meet his. Even after a full-on sprint through the forest, Moonjumper’s breath is even; they are powered by magic, after all, not life.

“I’m sorry,” they start, then bite their tongue because the youngster’s eyes are blank and he doesn’t turn to listen to them. He just stands there, basket tucked under an arm, soulless and still. In Moonjumper’s hand, his soul pulses gently.

They don’t know what to do. Snatcher could break free of their magic at any second, but none of the dozens of books on magic that Moonjumper has read offered any insight into repairing a stolen soul. Even if it took the ghost hours to free himself and find them, they’d be no closer to solving their problem than they are now.

But then again… this problem wasn’t created by anything they read about in books. Moonjumper has known from the start, instinctually, that a soul could be separated from a body without its death. That knowledge came from the Horizon itself — just as the need for food and water are known to the living, some things are simply encoded within them. If they just trusted their instincts on this…

Moonjumper twists a chain around one wrist, shaking their head to dismiss the thought. They regularly use their magic to teleport and store items, but those came so naturally to a being who was once the Horizon that they rarely even think of it. Bypassing human-designed spells, though, in favor of trusting an instinctual knowledge of magic — it feels too _inhuman_ , something done only by magical creatures or the corrupted.

 _But you’re not human_ , a part of them whispers. _You’re a body-snatching fragment of (un)reality that fooled itself into thinking it was Prince Luka. Trusting your magic worked, when months of study won’t even let you cast a simple shrinking spell. Isn’t it time to accept the truth?_

Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Their memories of life, their body, the very behavioral patterns that they follow may be human, but they’re also _stolen_. Moonjumper was never Luka, never a person, not really — they’re a Horizon Piece. They’re magical, through and through.

Moonjumper hunches over and clenches the chain in their fist, their breath escaping them in a whine, because that truth is almost too painful to admit. They remember their parents singing lullabies to soothe them to sleep, they remember the first time they were bold enough to take Vanessa’s hand in their own, they remember learning and laughing and _being_ — and they remember ice, corrupted magic, thirst and hunger, dying. Do those memories mean nothing? Did _Luka_ mean nothing?

But between their chains and their fisted hands, there’s something else, cushioning the metal from biting into their flesh. Moonjumper pries their eyes open, blinking away the moisture, and slowly opens their hand.

The youngster’s soul, neatly plaited and softly glowing, paints their hand even bluer than usual. If they listen closely they can almost hear what sounds like a scream coming from it. Beside them, the youngster’s body waits for orders, face blank.

The Horizon in their chest nearly burns with the emotions roiling through them, but the fact is _they don’t have time for this_. Snatcher could break free at any moment (if he hasn’t already!) and the innocent young man whose soul they hold could be forced into the manor, forced to care for a woman who would most certainly kill him. This is Moonjumper’s fault; it’s their duty to fix things.

They breathe in and out for a short, selfish moment (even though their body doesn’t need it, even though they’re wasting time). Then they push away their fear and pain to put their trust in their magic, the Horizon, and its instincts.

In the end, it isn’t even difficult. A thread of their own here, a knot there, and the young man gasps back into awareness, cherries spilling across the bridge as he drops the basket to clutch at his chest.

“Where — how — what—?” he pants, and Moonjumper clasps their own hands together to stop them from shaking.

“Your soul was removed from you,” they say, and the youngster jerks away from them, eyes fearful. They want to wince but they control themself. “I’ve repaired it. I would recommend you avoid Subcon in the future.” Because who knows what Snatcher will do to Moonjumper when he escapes, who knows what damage they’ve done to the relationship they’ve spent so many months cultivating — “It is not safe here; I am going to send you to the city of Academia. You should be able to find a way home from there.” They almost offer the Time’s End as a resource but bite their tongue at the last moment — haven’t they done enough? Why drag Tim into this as well?

It takes effort to unclasp their hands and reach for the young man. He flinches back, his own hands lifted defensively, and Moonjumper immediately pulls back, reality fluctuating with their emotions. “S-sorry,” they stutter, then try to regain control over themself, but — “I’m truly so sorry, I, I didn’t mean for any of this — sorry, s-sorry, I’m so—”

They’re wasting time, they’re _wasting time_ — they push everything away and reach out, brushing the youngster’s shoulder and teleporting him away before either of them can get out another word.

The bridge is silent. The Horizon buzzes in their chest, uneven and inhuman. Moonjumper stares at the cherries spread across the stones.

 _You’re not him_ , they remind themself. _Not Luka, not human, not anything. Just some magic puppeting a body, fooling itself._

What will Snatcher do, once he finds that Moonjumper has returned his victim’s soul and sent him away? How will he react to the fact that they’ve kept Vanessa from the food she needs to live?

The basket sits by their feet.

They aren’t Luka. They’ve taken on his duty to Subcon in the hopes of making up for taking his body and memories, but what is that duty, really? To send off what remains of his people, surely. To care for them where he can’t.

And if Vanessa is important to one of its citizens — if Snatcher has spent fifty years protecting her and making sure she’s provided for — then shouldn’t that be important to Moonjumper, too?

Slowly, they kneel. The stone bridge is cold beneath their knees. They collect handfuls of the spilled cherries, dropping them into the basket one by one.

They’ve been with Snatcher nearly every day of their existence, ever since first setting foot in Subcon’s village. Despite his rudeness, his prickliness, and his occasional cruelty, they’ve come to truly care for him. More importantly, though, they’re fairly certain that he has come to care for _them_.

He noticed their difficulty walking and gave them their cane; he gave them the opportunity to learn to control their magic, supported their efforts, took an interest; he’s even given them a _home_ , beyond just the house he’s helping them build. He’s paid Moonjumper attention that they don’t deserve, comforted them in his backwards way, and shared secrets of his own with them.

While hiding behind the facade of a villain, Snatcher has done his best to give Moonjumper everything they could not or would not give themself.

It seems the least they could do in return is deliver some cherries.

They get to their feet, tucking the full basket under their arm. The Horizon within them buzzes and shrieks, but they aren’t Luka; they can handle this. For Snatcher, they can do this.

Moonjumper calls on their magic and vanishes from the bridge into Vanessa’s manor.

The first thing they see, even before their eyes have the chance to adjust to the cellar’s darkness, is the glint of chains that match the shackles on their own wrists. The Horizon within them _spikes_ and they stagger back, already shaking because _they were here for so long, she kept them here, they died in those chains_ —

“That wasn’t _you_ ,” they hiss at themself, furious that they’re already failing to remember who they aren’t. “Pull yourself together.”

 _I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea, kid,_ says a voice in the back of their head but they squash it down. They can handle this.

It takes them a minute, but eventually reality stops warping so badly around them and they’re able to observe the place with a clinical eye:

There are a few lit candles in the wall sconces, which means she’s been down here in the past day or so. But the ice, frozen solid last time they were here, has begun to melt; they slosh through the inch or so of water atop the remaining ice as they head to the cellar door.

They almost saw her, last time. She had been on the stairs when they teleported away. Now, as they open the door to the stairs themself, they wonder how she reacted to finding the body of her prince gone. Was she angry? Was she confused? She’s kept the candles lit but let the ice begin to unfreeze; why?

They climb the stairs slowly, running a thumb along the comfortingly familiar whorls of their cane. The first floor opens before them and perhaps she’s here, perhaps they’ll soon see her —

They clutch the basket to their chest and try to control their ragged breathing. _You’re not him_ , they remind themself, fighting against their body’s urge to tremble. _You can handle seeing her. You just need to deliver the basket. Keep it together._

It takes no small amount of will for them to walk into the open hallway. The candles illuminate the familiar furniture and they remember standing here, flowers in hand, hopeful and happy to be seeing their love after weeks away. They remember the confusion, the panic, when she’d called upon the guards.

It doesn’t matter, though. That wasn’t really them.

She isn’t in the kitchen, nor the living room. The piano is dusty; unthinkingly, they dematerialize the dust away so it will be clean for her. She never particularly liked to play, they remember, but they rather liked doing duets with her. In any case, it’s clean before they can even consider the impulse.

The parlor is empty as well (besides a frozen figure they don’t look at too closely). Climbing to the second floor is harder than the first; the Horizon within their chest buzzes with panic, but they grit their teeth against it and continue.

The walls are more scratched up here, torn through by magic-sharpened claws, but they can handle that. At least their memories of this floor are more limited.

They creak open the door to the master bedroom, Horizon humming in their chest. She moved in here after her mother died, they know; she had spoken to them about how lonely the room felt while they hung from chains in her basement. She had wished they could move in with her.

She’s not here now. The sheets are barely rumpled, the bed neatly made as she has always preferred. The wardrobe is shut and her desk is clean. Nothing is out of place. The nursery, too, is just as it was. They stand in the doorway for a moment, wrestling with memories of the redecorating plans the two of them had made together for when they’d have children of their own. _You’re not him_ , they remind themself.

Besides the odd frozen figure, the rest of the floor is just as empty; they press on, climbing up to the third floor.

Only to stop short at the top of the staircase, staring.

Whenever Probonough’s royal family had visited, Subcon's queen would offer her spare rooms for their use; having slept many a time in the bedrooms to the left, they know this floor quite well. They also remember sitting for a number of portraits in the original queen’s studios here during her more lucid periods. If asked they could probably have drawn a map of the place, describing every detail down to each room’s particular wallpaper.

Now, though, the flickering candles reveal walls that have been covered floor to ceiling with various papers and scrolls. Closer inspection reveals them to be letters, hundreds of pages of them, all written in the same elegant penmanship.

 _My letters_ , they realize, reaching a hand towards them — then curse themself, staring intently at the inhumanly blue color of their skin. _No — you aren’t him. You never were._

Even with the cloak on they’re shivering. They wrap a chain around their wrist and pull the basket close. She must be here, on this very floor, and here they are getting distracted.

It occurs to them that they could simply call out for her — she would come for them the moment she knew they were here — but their voice fails when they try to say her name. They grit their teeth and force their body onwards. Its movements feel so stiff it’s as though it is not even theirs.

She isn’t in the guest bedrooms, nor is she in the painting studios. That leaves one last place: her old bedroom, at the far end of the hall. Its door is closed.

Every step takes monumental effort. Their cane shakes in their hand and the basket feels impossibly heavy. Yet much too quickly, they reach the end of the hallway.

 _You’re not him,_ they remind themself, forcing a shaking hand to the doorknob. _You can do this. You aren’t him._

The door opens with a creak; the room appears before them; Vanessa turns her head, and they realize immediately that they’ve been wrong, so wrong, this entire time.

Just as much as they are a Horizon Piece, they _are_ Luka. Nearly everything that was once him is now theirs, even tempered as he is by being also a piece of the Horizon. They may have become something beyond their source materials, but they also never really stopped _being_ them.

They are a Horizon Piece, and they are Prince Luka, and they are Moonjumper. 

And now, they are face to face with the woman who they once loved — and who killed them.

The shadows wrapped protectively around her vanish in an instant, letting the soft candlelight illuminate her features. She’s grown old since she killed him, far older than her mother ever got to, but when she smiles at them she’s just as radiant as she’s always been.

“My prince,” she says, “you’ve returned to me.”

“Vanessa,” they breathe, and she pouts at the lack of pet name. Her hair has gone white in the time they’ve been gone, her skin delicately wrinkled like crepe paper, and still she’s as perfect and beautiful as ever. They were supposed to have this with her. They were supposed to grow old _together_.

She crosses the room and it hurts them to see her so hunched over with age but she still moves with the kind of perfect, regal elegance that is impossible for him to look away from. She steps into their space, eyes soft, and presses a gnarled hand to their cheek. They can’t help leaning into it despite the cold, hungry for her touch.

“I’ve missed you,” she says.

“I missed you too,” they whisper, and _god,_ they did. They’ve spent months trying to avoid even thinking of her but now that they’re here it all comes back in a terrible rush — the longing, the sleep-stealing anxiety of how terribly she might feel without him, the daily pressure of reassuring her in letters they still feel the same, the knowledge that however terrible things are apart everything will be better when they’re together. She was more than his other half — she was his _everything,_ the reason he existed and the perfect ending to the perfect life they would build together. Without her, they were _nothing._

“Oh, my darling prince,” she says, smoothing away the tears he cannot stop. “You always were so emotional.”

“S-sorry,” they say, and she tuts sympathetically as she slides her hands back, lowering the hood of their cloak and untying the crescent moon mask they hardly ever remove nowadays. It comes loose easily under her delicate touch and she pulls it away, setting it on the side table.

Her smile has dimples, the same as ever. “Now isn’t that better?” she asks, voice fond, caressing their bare face and rubbing away tears as she goes.

“Vanessa,” they choke out, “I—”

“Shhh,” she says, and pulls them down into a kiss.

The years have stolen her height; they have to lean further than ever before to meet her. While they’ve never particularly liked kissing and her lips are like ice, even now — as always — they’ll do anything for her, anything to keep her happy. They sink into her touch, shaking, their tears falling on her face.

It’s a perfect, fairy tale kiss.

She breaks it, their breaths mingling together for a long moment that makes them _ache_ with how long it’s been since they were together like this. For them it’s been half a year — for her it’s been half a century. How could she bear it?

“My prince,” she says into the space between them and they shudder, lacing their fingers in hers. He can feel every bone in her fine, delicate hands — is she getting enough to eat? With a start, they recall the basket that brought them back to her in the first place.

“O-oh, I brought—” They untangle their hands (gently, so gently — they don’t want to hurt her) and present the basket of cherries, feeling a little foolish. “They’re, ah, for you.”

But an incandescent smile blooms on her face and relief washes through them. “Oh, darling,” she says with the faintest, most precious laugh as she takes the basket in her arms. “You’re so good to me. Thank you, my prince.”

“Of course,” he says, and means it — anything for her. But their smile catches when she doesn’t look back up from the cherries, her own smile fading. Panic catches flame within them and reality warps with it — they’ve done something wrong. They’ve made her unhappy. “Ven?”

She doesn’t respond. She turns away to place the basket on the desk and they follow after her, as helpless as an ember in the wind. “Vanessa? Please, darling, talk to me.”

“It’s just… you left me,” she says, her voice small, and his heart breaks for the way it wavers.

“I didn’t want to,” they say honestly, because the part of them that is Luka had balked at leaving her. The Horizon Piece, though, had been too desperate to continue existing to stay. They wrap a chain around their wrist, anxiety flaring — and pause, staring at the shackles that they carry even now. “I… I had to, though.”

Vanessa doesn’t seem to notice, though. Instead she wraps her arms around herself, like she can feel the cold to which she’s immune. “You were _always_ leaving.”

“But,” they say slowly, remembering that terrible stretch of time alone at the end of Luka’s life, “you… You left _me._ For days. I, I didn’t have any food or water. I — Vanessa, I — I _die—_ ”

“I _didn’t want to_ ,” she cries, whirling on him, and her magic surges. “I **_never_** **wanted to leave you!!** ” The lights of the candles are nothing against the shadows that erupt around her as she covers her face; ice cracks into existence at her feet and she sobs, reaching out to him.

They don’t even think to hesitate. Immediately, as always, they push away any feelings of their own and rush to her, pulling her into their arms. Her shadows whirl wildly around them and they hold her tight, fighting against the confetti their own magic wants to make of reality, focused intently on her and her pain above all else.

“I would never have left you, but your parents — they wouldn’t stop sending soldiers,” she sobs, nearly breathless. They tighten their grip, for a moment _hating_ his parents for making her feel this way. “I had to respond — I had to organize, for Subcon — you understand, my prince, don’t you? They took me away from you, or I never would have left.”

 _Of course,_ he wants to say, but another part that hardly sounds like them at all says, _Is she really claiming that the battles over her kidnapping you and chaining you up in the cellar had nothing to do with her? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, kid, and I hear you say stupid things everyday._

They shake their head to dismiss the voice, baffled — the important thing is that _Vanessa was hurt._ Everything else comes second to her. They rub her back — age has twisted her spine, and their heart aches for her — as she cries into their shirt, still trying to explain.

“By the time I could get back to you, you had already — **already—** ” she gasps and they shush her, holding her close, desperate to give her the comfort she deserves and lessen the destructive magic she can’t help but call forth. “I couldn’t bear it, not to have you with me — I kept you just as you were — and, and when you disappeared, not so long ago, I was **_devastated_ ** **—** ”

Her hands sharpen with ice, piercing through their shirt, and their breath hitches at the cold and pain but they try to muffle it because she can’t help it, it isn’t her fault. Magic, as far as Luka ever knew, is harmful by nature; it bends reality and can kill, but that isn’t the fault of the magic user. Vanessa isn’t doing this on purpose.

“But now… you’ve come back to me,” she says, and lifts her head to take him in, relief in every line of her face, eyes luminous with her tears. “You’re here again, like a fairy tale.”

The Horizon knows, though, that magic _doesn’t_ hurt. It can, of course, but there’s nothing innate to reality-bending that would make it cause pain. Moonjumper knows it, too.

But right now that knowledge feels so faraway. Vanessa is right here in their arms, smiling at them, glowing with the kind of hope they haven’t seen on her in much too long. They can’t let this precious moment be waylaid by anything. “Vanessa,” they start, but her gaze has been drawn past his eyes and she lifts a gnarled hand to touch a lock of their white hair that has escaped its ribbon.

“Your hair,” she says, sounding surprised. Then she laughs, perfect and bell-like. She touches her own curls, white with age. “We finally match.”

The memory of her bleaching his hair so long ago, how stupidly unhappy they had been with her, comes rushing back to them and they lift a blue hand to their hair now. It is indeed the same snow-white, bleached by magic, and they press a hand to their mouth because it really is like a fairy tale — because magic has given them both back the chance at a happy ending that life stole from them. The details aren’t important when Vanessa, even aged as she is, looks so incandescently happy.

Despite their effort to hold it back, their relief bubbles up within them and escapes as a _laugh_ , loud and overjoyed. They hug her to him, tears of their own falling, because ever since she put him down in that cellar things have been so terrible — Subcon frozen over, the bound ghosts of dead children, a hurt and hurting soul-stealer who has given everything he has for everyone but himself…

“Dear,” Vanessa says, and at the disapproval in her voice they _freeze._ “Your laugh,” she continues, “it isn’t — you simply must control yourself, my darling. I’ve told you so many times that it isn’t appropriately princely of you.”

She smoothes down their cloak, pulling away just enough to look them up and down. “And your clothing, it’s so common — and your boots! Whatever have you done to them? They look as if you’ve been using them to tromp through snow. Really, my dear, this is what you make of yourself without me?” She _tsks_ in displeasure.

“I,” _have been tromping through snow,_ they almost say. _I’ve spent the last half year helping the ghosts of your people process the fact that their queen killed them. That_ you _killed them._

“We’ll have to fix up your clothes first thing,” Vanessa says thoughtfully, running a proprietary hand down their cloak. “Oh, and these _chains_ — my prince—” She frowns at them, expression hurt. “You can’t tell me you’ve been wearing these this whole time?”

They look at the shackles around their thin, thin wrists. Vanessa had put them on Luka so long ago because she thought he had been lying to her and speaking with another woman — but he hadn’t. He’d been so careful, even at university, to follow her rules and be exactly as she wished him to be. He’d lost sleep and focus and time with potential friends to write her letters and reassure her and do everything she asked of him. In the last year of his life he’d been hardly a person at all, really: he’d been a puppet, obeying her every command, never daring to say anything that might upset her for fear of what she might feel and do.

And in the end, none of that effort had mattered. In the end, nothing Luka did or didn’t do could have changed things at all.

 _Oh, kid,_ says a voice within them. It sounds like the person who has spent all of Moonjumper’s existence hiding his reassurances and kindness behind false meanness and snide comments. It sounds terrifying, like ghostly laughter screaming through the forest, and it sounds gentle, like watchful yellow eyes. _Kid, you didn’t deserve that._

Moonjumper takes a step back.

“Well, no matter, we’ll soon put it to rights,” Vanessa is saying. The ice at her feet glints in the faint candlelight guttering through her shadows. She’s grown older since they were Luka, yes, but what stands out to Moonjumper now is that her eyes are no longer the icy blue they remember. They’re red, corrupted magic red, like theirs are naturally but the Horizon tells them that she _chose_ this. She gave in to her cruelty and obsession with forcing the world into the shape she wanted for it; she decided nothing and no one were more important than having things her way.

She absently taps a wickedly sharp claw to her lips, looking thoughtful. “And you have magic now too, do you? Wonderful — we can fix the forest together. There’s this awful beast haunting it, my prince, you would not believe its wickedness. It’s been somewhat useful to me, I suppose, but now that you’re here I have no need of it.”

Moonjumper takes another step back, hand reaching behind them, and finds the side table that holds their mask. Vanessa notices and frowns in delicate, perfect confusion, the shadows around her darkening.

“My prince?”

They fumble with the mask, bringing it to their face, and feel immediately more like themself for it. “Vanessa. I just came because—” Why did they come? Because they are foolish, certainly, because they didn’t really understand themself, but now they know better. “I just came to deliver the cherries. Snatcher wanted to make sure you were fed.”

Her lips scrunch in distaste. “That wretched thing? You _know_ it?”

“He’s actually quite kind,” they say. Amazingly, they tie their mask successfully on the first attempt. They pull their hood back up, tucking a loose hair behind their ear. “He cares about you.”

Her frown deepens, as do the room’s shadows. “I don’t understand,” she says. “What are you doing? Why are you saying these things?”

They take a deep, calming breath and hang onto the chains they’ve become accustomed to. Their own magic flits around them in colorful little squares. “He’ll make sure you stay fed. Don’t hurt the bound ghosts he sends, please. They’re only trying to help.”

“Darling…?”

“Th-this—” The Horizon within them buzzes with old fear and fresher pain but they press on; this is something they have to say to her. “You and I — Vanessa, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay with you. I can’t _be_ with you.”

She stares at them. Her red eyes gleam in the shadowy room.

“What we had,” they continue, even as Luka’s old fears react and their magic twists more strongly, “it wasn’t healthy. I, I gave you everything I had — everything I _was_ — I. Vanessa, _I would have died for you,_ ” they say, suddenly desperate for her to understand. “Do you know that? I loved you more than almost everything in my life.”

“But you left me **over and over** , for **that school** ,” she says, anger creeping into her voice.

“Because I had a _duty to my kingdom_ ,” they say, Horizon racing in their chest. “I had to learn so I could serve them! They were my responsibility, just as Subcon was yours—”

But they cut themself off, because Vanessa killed her kingdom. She froze every last citizen when Luka died — and Luka only died because of _her._ She put her own feelings before the lives of hundreds, hundreds that Moonjumper and Snatcher are now trying to help, and even now she doesn’t look at all remorseful or horrified or even apologetic. She just looks _angry._

“I have to go,” they say. They turn away, hands shaking and vision blurred. “Goodbye, Ven.”

But then she cries out and it _tears_ at them, at the person who was Luka and at Moonjumper now. “My prince, _please_ ,” she gasps, and the air in the room freezes and the shadows writhe and they _can’t take it,_ could never take her pain when they could do something about it, could never leave her alone when she was hurting and her magic was wild —

So, foolishly, Moonjumper turns back. They cross the room and pull Vanessa into their arms one last time.

“This isn’t right,” they whisper. “You have to let me go.”

“I can’t,” she replies, clawed hands wrapping tight around them. “ **I won’t.** ”

“What,” Moonjumper says, and their feet go numb. They look down and in the tiny amount of light Vanessa hasn’t killed, they can see ice crawling up their boots, jagged and thick. The Horizon within them spikes in recognition. “Vanessa. Vanessa, don’t do this—”

“ **You can’t leave me. Not again,** ” she says, and panic roars through Moonjumper like a wildfire. This can’t be happening. “ **Why are you always leaving me?** ”

“I didn’t — Vanessa, I _died_ ,” they shout over her magic. “I didn’t leave, _you killed me._ And then you k-kept my body frozen for, for fifty years!!”

“ **And then you** **_left_ ** **me!!** ” she shrieks, and ice shoots up past their knees, so cold it burns. They struggle against it but it’s solid — they try to teleport away but the Horizon is made of magic too and won’t work against itself.

“I left _because_ you killed me!” they yell, voice cracking as they tug at their legs trapped in her ice. “Just like you killed Subcon! You did this, all of this, to yourself!! None of this is _my fault — it’s_ ** _yours!_** ”

She screams and they understand, finally, that she would rather destroy them than admit her culpability even to herself.

Her ice is up to their thighs and they can’t teleport away with it holding them like this, but Moonjumper wants to exist more than anything. They want to make the Subconites laugh and chat with Tim about their latest readings and talk to Snatcher about everything both of them have been through in the house he’s helped them build. They want to _live_ — and they want to know what happens next.

The Horizon Piece they once were buzzes and burns in their chest. It can’t teleport them as long as they’re in the ice.

So Moonjumper calls forth a razor-thin thread of magic and commands it wrap around their legs, just above Vanessa’s ice. She doesn’t even notice, too busy screaming something that isn’t worth listening to. They wish, vaguely, that their nerves didn’t work anymore.

Ah well.

With a burst of magic and a mighty tug, Moonjumper pulls the red thread taut and _through._ They’re free — and in the fraction of a second they have before Vanessa realizes what they’ve done and before the pain hits, they teleport back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS (ok i'm not rly sure how to specifically warn for some of this stuff besides pointing and being like "FUCKED UP" but ima give it a shot! as always lmk if there's something you think ought to be on here): general self-loathing and identity issues; soullessness/zombification; self-denial about natural parts of oneself; denying oneself the right to feel one's emotions; thought errors leading to putting oneself in danger; ignoring one's instincts; obsession with another person and obsessive behavior; unexpected aging; codependency/losing one's identity in the presence of a specific person; pronoun change emblematic of forgetting oneself; still loving someone who has hurt you; unwanted kiss; emotionally abusive relationship; discussion of canonical torture and death, including thirst/starving; violent outbursts; physical abuse; casual dismissal of someone who greatly cares for them; manipulation; being trapped; self-amputation.
> 
> 1\. /gets up on soapbox for a sec/ hey if anything about vanessa's and luka's rship reminds you of your own (be it romantic or otherwise) then here's some quick stuff that might help: [one](https://willingway.com/fix-addicted-codependent-marriage/) [two](https://au.reachout.com/articles/signs-of-an-abusive-relationship)[three](https://www.rd.com/list/abusive-relationship-signs/). just wanna let u know that as someone who's been thru it before, it's possible to have relationships that feel much better! what most helped me was learning about healthy boundaries and spending time w other people, which u should be able to do in a healthy relationship anyway.  
> 2\. ok!! /gets down off soapbox/ long chapter eh?  
> 3\. v... um, er.... vanessa got luka's legs in the divorce. SORRY SORRY I'M SO SORRY --  
> 4\. up next: finally FINALLY, some snatcher pov!
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: MJ went into the manor. this was a Mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Snatcher wheezes. “Kid—!”

But Moonjumper has already turned away, their maroon cloak whipping behind them as they escape with the soul of Snatcher’s latest victim in hand. Having keeled over the second their magic touched him, he can’t even watch them go — he’s just stuck here, face-down in the dirt and useless, while the kid’s footsteps disappear into the forest and his form is wracked with  _ cold  _ and  _ trapped  _ and  _ pain. _

Snatcher has spent fifty years fighting off magic-users. He’s learned by now that magic eats away at the cores of ghosts, fading them further from the view of the living and making it that much more difficult to send them off. Meanwhile a bound ghost becomes confused when attacked with magic, but their connection to a physical object keeps them present; over time their cores regenerate and they can continue existing none the worse for the experience.

But Snatcher is a ghost with no physical anchor and plenty of stolen souls. As magic weakens his ghostly core, the souls rush in to take its place — meaning that suddenly, Snatcher can feel things again.

And what he feels right now is  _ agony. _

Snatcher’s interest in his previous life begins and ends with its usefulness in sending off the rest of the ghosts in Subcon. But times like these — when offensive magic manages to bring back sense memories that he prefers to keep buried — he can admit that he’s a bit curious about the kind of life he must have led for such intense feeling to follow him into the afterlife.

For instance, right now the criss-crossing spiderwebs of Moonjumper’s magic have made it possible for Snatcher to feel the biting cold of Subcon’s icy air, the uncomfortable twist of his shoulders, and the tightness of his restraints. But worse than that are the emotions those feelings awake in him: sense memories of wrists rubbed raw by metal shackles, the paralyzing fear that even trying to make himself comfortable will result in punishment worse than he can imagine, the gut-deep knowledge that this is  _ my fault, this would never have happened if I had been better, I made [them] do this _ —

He grits his teeth against it, trying to stay present, but it’s like trying to keep a caught sweater from unraveling. Even if Moonjumper only meant to keep Snatcher trapped rather than damage his core (and he can feel that intent, in the resonance of the magic and the way his mind keeps circling in panic around the concept of  _ captured caught stuck forever _ ), the result is still that for an unknowable length of time Snatcher is caught up in both pain and vague, terrible flashbacks of a life he barely knows anything about.

“Hello? Er, Boss? No, that feels weird — Snatcher?”

Pages and pages of letters written deep into the night, stealing his sleep from him.

“Snatcher? Can you hear me?”

Blurry faces — his parents? — tight with seriousness as they explain duty and responsibility even as they tenderly wrap him in his favorite blanket.

“Okay, they said the magic strings will mess me up, but I’m pretty sure I can sit next to you and be fine.”

Somewhere dark and terribly cold, somewhere that he can almost remember from his time after death, but those memories are so strange and fractured that he hardly ever thinks of them.

“This wasn’t exactly the kind of thing I was expecting when I agreed to be bound, you know.”

A shy but radiant smile that wraps around his heart and  _ squeezes _ — he would do anything to protect it, to see it again, even if it meant hurting himself.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done for me — for all of the ghosts. This is just… not what I expected, I guess.”

And now, in his afterlife, that same strain: the frozen faces of hundreds of people he knows he once knew but whose names and identities now elude him. The awareness that only  _ he  _ can help them, because he was stupid or unlucky enough to absorb the souls of Subcon’s citizens when no other ghost could. The weight of that duty and of the souls he’s stolen since.

A sigh. “If it helps any, I can’t imagine it was easy for them. They looked… well, like it was gonna hurt them as much as it’s hurting you.”

And the hundreds of years ahead of him. Half a century of killing and stealing the souls of anyone who stepped foot in his forest and what does he have to show for it? Vague memories of a life that doesn’t matter anymore, zero ghosts sent off, and a couple of sorry traps.

“Sorry, I guess that’s pretty insensitive of me to say. I just mean that this situation must be rough for  _ both _ of you.”

Traps that didn’t even work when he most needed them. Sure, it’s not like Snatcher could ever be truly prepared against a magic-user, but he’d still had contingency plans in place just in case someone corrupted ever came along. He  _ had  _ to — he’s hardly as strong as a human. Relying on traps and cleverness is his only option.

“It’s just, well. This whole thing is kind of a mess, isn’t it?”

But then again, even a corrupted magic-user is limited by virtue of being mortal. Moonjumper, whatever they are, is  _ not  _ mortal. In fact, as far as Snatcher can tell, they seem to be made almost entirely of magic (besides the poor schmuck’s corpse they’re using as an anchor). Snatcher has never gone up against someone with this kid’s strength before — and naively,  _ foolishly, _ he had let himself start to hope that he would never have to.

“Er, sorry. I’m pretty sure I was fully grown when I died — or, mostly grown? But I guess I’m not really as wise as I thought I was.”

What kind of an idiot lets his guard down around someone like that? Not just once, but over and over and over — not just when they were useful, but when they were vulnerable to him too. Snatcher has repeatedly had them at his mercy — and repeatedly, he’s been weak.

“I guess I just wanted to let you know that I’m rooting for you. Both of you.”

Something about the kid had just tugged at his heartstrings. It was more than the fact that Moonjumper shared Snatcher’s sense of duty to Subcon; it was that they were so scared, so clearly hurt, but still so gentle and careful with the Subconites. That every time Snatcher was cruel they would react with kindness. That they thought they had to squash down on parts of themself, that they thought they didn’t deserve the same mercy they extended to others, that they seemed to expect the worst but still hope for the best.

He couldn’t help but want to help the poor kid.

“Snatcher?”

The red-white thread binding Snatcher loosens. He hisses, pain still echoing through him, concentrated on his wrists and what he could once identify as his stomach — and then the strings vanish and Snatcher can suddenly  _ think  _ again.

“ _ Shit _ ,” he breathes, still face-down in the dirt. A mittened hand touches his shoulder and he flinches away.

“Ack, sorry,” says a feminine voice.

Snatcher looks up, still breathing heavily (because as much as he doesn’t need to it  _ helps _ ), and finds himself face to face with a Subconite. Absurdly, for a moment he despairs — fifty years avoiding swearing around these kids and he breaks his streak  _ now?  _ — before recognizing her: she’s their most recent recruit. He can tell because Moonjumper cut her pattern wrong and he hadn’t had the heart to correct them so she’s noticeably taller than the rest of his minions.

“You’re… the florist?” he asks. He remembers that her frozen body wears a mask, but there’s only so many adults who could have been left behind in that section of Subcon. This ghost was most likely hers.

“I guess I might have been,” she replies, sounding surprised. “But that’s not — listen, how are you feeling? You were lost to us for a while.”

That’s right. With effort, Snatcher pushes himself into a sitting position; the florist tries to support him, but she’s just a thing made of fluff and fabric. He aims a grateful smile at her anyway — no need for her to feel guilty over something she has no control over — and checks himself over.

He’s human-shaped, as evidenced by his five-fingered hands. These he scowls at, but he’s still too addled by Moonjumper’s magic to change forms, so for now he’s stuck in this weaker, less impressive form.

Memories of letters, parents, cold metal and brilliant smiles haunt him for a moment, but he dismisses them with a shake of his head. “What happened?” he asks, blinking away the lingering confusion.

“Moonjumper trapped you and ran off,” the florist obediently recites. “I sent the rest of the bound ghosts to keep a lookout for them; last we heard of them, they had, er, repaired your… victim, I guess? And then disappeared with the basket of bomb cherries. We haven’t seen them since.”

“Right,” Snatcher says, but if he had a heart it would be beating in double-time — why on earth would the kid take the cherries with them? Where have they gone? It’s like trying to understand a tapestry before it’s been woven — he has the supplies, but no idea how any of it fits together. Could they have gone to the manor…? “Their magic — it just disappeared, did it?”

“That’s right,” the florist replies with a nod. “Here one moment, gone the next. Er, I wasn’t really sure what to do myself, so I just stayed here to make sure you were okay. Um. Are you?”

Snatcher blinks down at the dead woman incredulously, but for all her uncertainty she seems genuine.

A smile pulls at his lips despite himself; he gently pats her shoulder, only barely changing his target before he can pat her head and totally infantilize the poor woman. “I’m fine,” he tells her, which is close enough to the truth. He gets to his feet with more of a wobble than he cares to admit and clasps his hands together, mind back on the topic at hand. “Alright. Alright — so we don’t know where they went or why. Let’s see if we have time to set some traps for them if they come back.”

“If?” the florist repeats. Snatcher glances at her; even with a face of ghostly light, he can tell that she looks dumbfounded. “Traps?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, squashing down on his own feelings — stupid magic probably intensified them. “However useful they’ve been to us, they’ve proven themself a threat. I can’t let them stay here anymore.”

“Wait, just cause they disagreed with you and took a stand?” she demands. “They were trying to help — both you and that guy. Give them a break, Snatcher.”

He doesn’t like to snap at the bound ghosts, especially newbies, but she’s been unbound for the past fifty years, existing only in the present while Snatcher worked around the clock to keep Subcon safe. He  _ can’t  _ give anyone a break, not without putting his work and his people at risk. Whatever morals she thinks apply,  _ do not  _ — he had to learn that the hard way.

Still, he grits his teeth and calls on his patience. “My duty is to Subcon first, florist. Whatever their reasons, they attacked me. I can’t let them stay.”

“They only attacked you trying to fix  _ their  _ mistake,” she argues hotly. “Besides, if Subcon really is the most important thing to you then I’d expect you to be  _ begging  _ them to stay — you hadn’t sent off any ghosts til they got here and started doing  _ your _ job!”

At once, she slaps a mittened hand over her mouth. Snatcher barely notices for the roaring in his ears. For a moment he can think only of a thread, pulled taut and tauter still, pressure coming from both sides before it  _ snaps. _

“Snatcher, I’m sorry,” the florist stammers, clearly mortified. “I didn’t mean to suggest — I mean, you’ve been keeping Subcon safe this whole time, right? Without you Moonjumper would never have been able to do all this. Er, I mean  _ any  _ of this — I’m sorry, I’m not saying any of this right—”

“No,” Snatcher says. His hands have found his arms at some point; they clutch at them as a fine tremor goes through his form. “No, you’re absolutely correct.”

“I am  _ not _ ,” she protests, but he’s not listening anymore.

How can he claim to care about Subcon and then remove the one good thing that’s happened to it in fifty years? All Snatcher has done is keep the spirits of the forest frozen in time while collecting souls in an effort to recover a handful of thus-far useless memories; in six months, Moonjumper has nearly single-handedly sent off dozens of dwellers. The only thing standing in their way is their inability to see unbound ghosts on their own — but any ghost could show them. Snatcher isn’t needed at all.

“Listen, let’s just take a step back and cool off,” the florist is saying as she makes frantic, placating gestures. “Nobody needs to be making any big decisions right now. I mean, it’s not like they’re even here right now, right?”

With a faint  _ puff  _ of displaced air, the warm, familiar buzzing sensation of Moonjumper’s magic materializes behind them.

Snatcher can’t bring himself to move. It’s as if he is frozen.

“Okay, not great timing, but —  _ Moonjumper _ !” The florist darts to them, her terrible gasp tearing at something within Snatcher; he turns to look.

And has to look down, because the kid isn’t standing like they should be. Instead they’re crumpled on the ground, curled up small, making a harsh, repetitive sound while the florist stumbles around them in a panic. Their magic is flitting so violently around them that it is difficult to make out their form. It thus takes Snatcher a long moment to understand what is wrong.

There’s a perfectly clean line midway down their thighs, like reality just stopped working there. There’s no blood or bone visible through the harsh, red glow of magic that comes from the wounds. Snatcher stares, and stares, and finally realizes that Moonjumper’s legs are just  _ gone. _

For some reason, ever since before his ghost was really even conscious, Snatcher has always assumed that all magic — even the non-offensive kinds — would hurt. It’s taken him months to get over his intense, core-deep fear that the natural flickering of Moonjumper’s magic would be ice-cold and painful. Even now, having learned first-hand that all it does is create the brief sensation of whatever Moonjumper is feeling, it usually takes concentrated effort for Snatcher not to flinch when he comes into contact with it. He’s put in the work, certainly, to hide that from the kid, but that doesn’t erase the spike of fear he always feels when magic gets close to him.

There’s no such hesitation now. He’s on his knees beside Moonjumper before he can even think about it, his hands shaking as he presses them to Moonjumper’s face and chest. Their twisting, warping magic flutters weakly against Snatcher and he nearly keels over — the tiny fragments that touch him very nearly  _ scream  _ in  _ pain pain pain,  _ sharp and cutting and more immediately intense than anything Luka ever experienced —

Snatcher has to pull away for a second, the souls he’s stolen racing across his form in  _ panic pain confusion _ before he can get a hold of himself once more. He grits his teeth and dives back in, swearing at himself: he’s only feeling a tiny portion of what Moonjumper is.  _ Pull yourself together, fool. _

The basket of cherries is nowhere to be found. There are noticeable, petite handprints on Moonjumper’s clothing made out of ice that have Snatcher blanching. He presses a hand to the kid’s face, where frozen tear tracks have been wet with new tears; Moonjumper flinches away at his touch at first, but then opens their intense red eyes and looks right into Snatcher’s own.

“Kid,” Snatcher says, voice hoarse. “Kid, did you go into the manor? What did you do?”

Moonjumper hiccups, cutting off the sounds they’ve been making, and Snatcher realizes with a chill that they had been  _ laughing _ — a terrible laugh worse than anything Snatcher has ever managed, something half-deranged with pain and disbelief. But now Moonjumper raises their hand to Snatcher’s, red eyes wide, and smiles so hugely that he immediately knows that there’s something wrong, something even worse than their missing legs.

“Snatcher! Hi there,” Moonjumper says. They sound bright but the magic of their voice buzzes so terribly that Snatcher can barely understand them. “Sorry I returned that soul — I’ll get you another one, I promise. I did deliver your cherries, though!”

“You mean you saw—” Snatcher bites his lip  _ hard _ as the awful, consuming feelings he always has about the princess pierce him through like a needle. Her tears, the soldiers who would kill her, her desperate attempts to make them understand that this wasn't her fault but Prince Luka’s —

But Moonjumper is  _ right here  _ so he shoves those feelings down, furious with himself for getting lost in them for even a moment. Could the kid’s missing legs be because of  _ her _ ? Would she do that? Snatcher doesn’t know, but the idea of this being her doing would turn his stomach if he had one. “Did you — do something to her?”

Moonjumper laughs. It is awful to hear.

Finally, they catch their breath. “We talked, and I gave her the cherries,” they say, eyes bright and not all there. “And Snatcher, you know what?” They pull him in, strange eyes softening. “ _ None of it was my fault. _ ”

“Kid?” Snatcher says, but Moonjumper closes their eyes and relaxes, still holding tight to Snatcher’s hand. “Kid?? Moonjumper?  _ Hey! _ ”

For a moment Snatcher forgets neither of them are human. He scrabbles at their neck, desperate for a pulse, and when he finds none he lifts his hands in a fist to start chest compressions — as useless as his memories from life usually are, at least he has this — until the florist steps in his way, shouting.

“Stop!!” she screams. “They’re just unconscious — their magic is still going. Stop!”

Snatcher hesitates, panic crowding out rational thought, but — she’s right. Their magic has slowed significantly but it’s still dancing around them, a bit too sharply to be calm but much better than before. Now that he looks, Moonjumper’s soul is still there, too, red and unearthly and just the same as always. The kid is still with them.

Snatcher lowers his hands. He breathes for a long moment, trying to calm himself. The florist taps her foot nervously.

“Let’s get them inside,” he finally manages.

She nods. Snatcher does most of the work, swearing the whole time at how light Moonjumper is (they’ve always been scarily skinny, but without legs their weight is so much less) and at how  _ weak  _ he still is himself. What’s the use of being a soul-stealing monster if he can’t even lift someone Moonjumper’s size? Even his weakened core isn’t enough to excuse how pathetic he is, how very nearly useless.

Finally they get Moonjumper situated inside the bones of their unfinished stone house, in the old bed some of the Subconites had rescued from a falling-apart treehouse. The kid doesn’t so much as twitch the whole time, their body still as a corpse. Snatcher watches as the florist clumsily spreads a blanket over them.

Snatcher may lack nerves, but the kid’s magic very recently reminded him how cold Subcon is. He turns to squat by the makeshift fireplace and quickly runs through his memories, deciding which of them is the most worthy of sacrifice. 

There’s one that he sometimes considers when he thinks about Subcon’s princess. Whoever he was in life, he must have been in love (or something like it) — he’s never been able to find a comparison for the obsessive, desperate feelings attached to this memory except for the loyalty he feels to the woman in the manor. Beyond the memory’s emotions, all he can remember is a bouquet clasped in nervous, eager hands, the flowers violet and white and unfamiliar to him.

In general he prefers not to use magic; every instance of it uses up the souls he’s been so careful and conscientious about collecting. This, though, is worth it.

Snatcher aims a hand towards the grate, holding that specific flash of memory in his mind’s eye like it’s something precious — and like a thread unspooling, it vanishes. His hand lights up soul-blue and the wood in the fireplace ignites in indigo that shortly turns to the flickering orange of a natural flame.

The memory is gone. Snatcher flexes his hand, scowling, and hopes that whatever he picked wasn’t important. 

“BOSS!!”

He turns to see several Subconites fly through the doorway and pile into each other when the one in front comes to a sudden stop. “Oh my gods, is Mr. Moonjumper okay—?”

“The Queen’s come out of the manor!!” a different one shrieks, the light of its hood swirling in anxiety. “She’s coming into the forest and she’s  _ mad _ !”

“ _ What _ ?!” Snatcher shoves them aside and stalks out the door. The forest itself is nearly as quiet as always, but a number of minions are rushing his way, all babbling about the queen. Even a few Dwellers have noticed what’s happening and are making moves towards him. Several Subconites grab his arms, frantic as they speak, but Snatcher barely notices.

In the far distance he can hear it — the crack of fresh ice, just like that first day he can remember.

Snatcher has very few memories from before waking up in the frozen-over amphitheatre, and what he does remember is so jumbled and strange that he’s mostly dismissed them as the confused misinterpretations of an unbound ghost. After waking up, though — Snatcher doubts he could ever forget the desolate landscape, the hundreds dead, the sounds of marching soldiers in the distance.

Mostly, though, Snatcher remembers the princess.

She was crying when he found her. She was all alone in the center of town, sobbing at what her ice had made. Snatcher’s heart had immediately gone out to her— he knew at once that she was a person deserving of protection and love. So he had curled up beside her, invisible, and listened to her scream and cry about how Prince Luka had left her and caused this to happen to Subcon.

He hadn’t known what to do with his empathy for her, his horror at the destruction, his so-recent awakening as a being with a future but no past. But when the soldiers had arrived and threatened her — well, he’d been helpless to  _ not  _ protect her.

She hasn’t stepped foot outside of the manor since that day. And now she’s coming — almost certainly for Moonjumper.

Snatcher knows without a doubt that what happened to Subcon can’t be blamed on her. It never would have happened if that  _ damned _ Prince Luka hadn’t hurt her in the first place. But he’s spent the last half year with Moonjumper, getting to know them and — foolishly, perhaps — coming to care for them as well. As easy as it would be to lump them in with all magic-users as a threat to the princess, he knows that they are too good to ever hurt anyone.

And as the florist pointed out, Subcon  _ needs  _ Moonjumper. It doesn’t need Snatcher.

_ But Snatcher, you  _ are  _ needed, _ says a little voice in the back of his head. It hardly sounds like him at all.  _ You have value. What you’re planning, it’s not something you deserve— _

Snatcher shoves the voice away. He gently disentangles the Subconites and Dwellers from his form, checking his reserves — his ghostly core has mostly returned to its baseline, and the many souls he’s stolen over the last fifty years ripple readily across his form, ready for his use.

“Snatcher?”

It’s the florist. She has herded the rest of the Subconites back and is watching him warily. Moonjumper is still out of it in their bed.

“Take care of them, alright?” Snatcher says with a genuine smile. Then he heads out into the forest to meet the queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: swearing (omg tho); lots of self-loathing; amnesia/memory issues; physical pain; flashbacks; canonical abusive relationship; discussion of death; sisyphean efforts to regain memories/send off ghosts; reference to betrayal and hurt feelings; thinking you're useless; (non-gorey) aftermath of self-amputation; not quite gaslighting but basing one's opinions off of falsehoods.
> 
> 1\. this chapter has some rly heavy lifting to do ahhh........ hopefully it's done a decent job but i suppose we won't know til we get to the end of act two (AHHHHHHHHHH).  
> 2\. *shows snatcher some mj traits* "lovable, flawless, perfect" // *shows snatcher that he also has these traits* "contemptible." // *absolutely WHOMPS snatcher w a pillow* STOP *whomp* HAVING *whomp* SUCH A MESSED UP RELATIONSHIP *whomp* WITH YOURSELF/VES *whomp*  
> 3\. this is only the second time snatcher has called moonjumper by their name instead of "kid," and the first time was to make fun of them.  
> 4\. ever since mj (who has thread-based magic) was only a Horizon Piece they have always thought in terms of fire (curiosity catches light, sparks, burning, etc); snatcher (who has fire magic) thinks in threads and fabric. i just think they're neat!  
> 5\. man, i was so distracted by how sad i was about mj i've been completely forgetting to be properly sad about snatcher :( this man is so /soft/ rn it's killin me. fortunately there's plenty of time for him to become the bitter old man we all know and love from the game, eh?  
> 6\. have i mentioned that each chapter contains at least one surprise for me? this time it was the florist! if you are interested in the florist as a subconite, i know u can find some content about that on tumblr user winterpower98's blog :-) also, are u all reading Hide and Seek by lemonadesoda? if you like snatcher taking care of people, that's a good one (esp ch7 i think??)  
> 7\. the florist's sister in ch6: "when i was 15 my older sister was extremely wise" reality: the florist was a stupid 20yo who can't stop putting her foot in her mouth. don't get me wrong, she's darling! but... honey. c'mon.  
> 8\. this chapter marks the halfway point of act two, and thus (supposedly) the whole fic! yes, there's a vanessa-shaped creature in my brain trying to convince me this ought to be a 5-act rather than a 3-act, but for now i am beating her back w a broom. i'm sure this will be fine 8^)  
> 9\. i AM starting to get rly itchy editor's fingers but darn it, we're moving forward together! editing comes later!! u hear me, adhd???? we're gonna finish this fic!! >:O
> 
> i hope this chapter finds you well. til next time!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: Snatcher realized he was less important to Subcon than Moonjumper; when his minions reported Vanessa had left the manor to enter the forest, he went to go meet her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

For a time, Moonjumper has no idea what is happening.

Snatcher is there at some point. Someone carries them to bed and tucks them in. Someone else yells. The places where their legs end very nearly _scream_ in _pain pain pain_ , sharp and cutting and more immediately intense than anything Luka ever experienced. A fire roars to life in the hearth; the heat and woodsmoke are a comfort, but they don’t compare to the hands that carefully check them over. Then: quiet.

Moonjumper sleeps. 

Their body died many years ago in Vanessa’s cellar; even if it were still capable of healing, the complete removal of their legs would be hard to come back from. Still, Moonjumper rests and the magic that has taken over their body buzzes along nerves and pathways, searching mindlessly for a solution to the problem their brain reports. And in the meantime, they dream.

The moment one scene materializes in their mind’s eye it becomes subsumed by something else, memories and imagined scenarios both. For the most part it’s just fragments: a young Vanessa’s luminous smile, her terrible red eyes in shadow — which burn up to reveal the carved trunk of the puppet theatre tree house in which Moonjumper spent so much of their time, but hacked into the main support are the letters “L+V” — which vanishes into smoke that becomes a burlap trap with horrible laughter echoing outside of it as a vicious dark claw tears through their bad leg — and on and on until the wooden door to the cellar appears before them and they thrust a blue hand out and throw it open.

The dream stills.

Moonjumper shivers. The unmoving doorway is eerie after the seeming eternity of rushing images and sensations, but burning curiosity that drives them onward. They’re not stopped by the lack of legs — instead, the faintest red thread supports them — and they descend the stairs with their familiar limp, shackles clinking both against the banister and their wooden cane. They reach the bottom, turn their masked face, and the breath goes out of them in an involuntary, pained sigh.

“Luka,” they say, and the figure chained to the cellar wall jerks its head up in shock. His golden eyes are wide and unfocused, his body as thin as Moonjumper’s, and it’s painfully clear that he’s on death’s door. 

Vanessa did this to him — to _them._

By the hazy look in Luka’s eye, they can tell there’s not much time left. The Horizon buzzes tightly in their chest — for so long they’ve wanted to apologize to him for taking his identity, but now there’s something truer and more important they need to say to him.

“You didn’t deserve this,” they tell him. With a swing of their strings they step forward, but the man who becomes them flinches. They wince in return, hesitating at his reaction; but as sympathetic as they are to Luka’s fears, the words spill out of them regardless as they twist a chain around their wrist. “I wish I could have told you. I wish we had known. I wish we hadn’t been alone, that we had let someone help us. I wish _I_ could have helped us,” and they don’t know whether they mean it as Moonjumper or the Horizon Piece or Luka himself.

They unthinkingly move forward again and Luka struggles weakly in his shackles. They bite their lip, understanding his reaction even as it stings, and then the man opens his mouth and breathes out the faintest “ _no_.”

Moonjumper shudders at the venom in that one word, clasping their arms around themself. They would give anything to comfort this man but they understand he means _I cannot accept you are what I become._ He means _you could not have helped me._ He means _no, I deserved it._

Moonjumper takes a moment to scrub away the tears clouding their vision, impatient with themself, and when they look again Luka’s body is gone from its chains. Instead there floats a faded ghost, barely visible in the shadows of the manor basement; even as they reach for him, it fades from their sight. 

Their ghost is fifty years gone. He was likely sent off to the other side before anyone could truly convince him that none of this was his fault. His existence ended with him thinking the worst of himself, exactly like Moonjumper had once felt. “I’m already too late,” they understand, and their grief catches like a match. 

But still they reach out, hoping: _please_ let him not be gone, please let it be that Moonjumper just can’t see him, please let them have the chance to just _talk_ to poor Luka. Their hand touches something that sends a bolt of cold through them, ice that shoots through their whole body and reverberates painfully in their missing legs, and —

***

And Moonjumper wakes up.

The place where their legs should be feels so cold that it _burns._ The _wronghurtwrong_ ness of it twists their body: they curl in on themself, whimpering, desperately wishing for relief — and at once, the pain just… stops.

Baffled, Moonjumper opens their eyes to the night sky above. Their own magic flits rapidly around them, turning in perfect little squares and rectangles before it snaps back to them. The old theatre curtain they’ve been using as a blanket is tucked tight around them and when they turn their head they can see that someone has dragged the bed closer to the hearth. Embers burn low in the grate, casting little light in the surrounding deep shadows.

They’re in the bones of the house Snatcher was helping them build. The roof is unfinished still, leaving them open to the elements, but the night is calm and clear. They’re entirely alone. Their mask is still on. They’re _safe._

They also aren’t in any particular pain. They pull back the curtain-blanket without thinking about it, revealing — Moonjumper hisses, the Horizon within them flickers, and a slight headache starts behind their eyes.

Their magic is more active partway down their thighs, the shape of unreality there so thick they can’t see through to where exactly their legs now end — but they know anyway in a bone-deep way that worsens their headache to think about.

They went into Vanessa’s manor. They did this to themself.

 _Wrong,_ says the voice in their head. _Literally we just had a whole thing about it, kid. You may have always been a naive, hopeful thing, but that doesn’t make her choices your fault._

With a gasp Moonjumper remembers: “ _Snatcher—_ ” they _need_ to talk to him — and they swing their legs over the side of the bed, mind already racing ahead to where they might find him.

Except that’s not what happens; they don’t _have_ legs anymore. Body unbalanced, they tip over the edge of the bed and the floor comes up to meet them. They yelp, throwing their hands out to catch themself —

And they don’t land. Slowly, Moonjumper opens one eye.

Above the old carpet a few Subconites dug up to use as their floor, Moonjumper floats.

Instinctive alarm takes over and they frantically flap their arms about, trying to right themself, but they neither fall further nor move. They just… float there, stable, positioned exactly like they’ve landed on their knees.

“ _What_ ,” they say.

Experimentally, and feeling just a _little bit_ insane, Moonjumper places their hands on the floor. They push, as though to stand up — and like magic, their body lifts into the air until it floats at exactly the height they’re accustomed to standing. Out of the corner of their eyes, so fine as to be nearly invisible even to them, they spot threads of red magic holding them aloft.

They make as though to take a step forward; forward they move.

Moonjumper strides across the room, unencumbered by the lack of human legs. Their gait is smooth, perfect, exactly as Luka was once trained to walk.

Someone has left their cane leaned up against the wall. They pick it up, feeling the familiar whorls of the wood against their palm. They turn slowly, consideringly, and walk back.

This time they move with the limp that has become natural to them in their time as Moonjumper. It feels, they decide, much more like the person they are now.

Then, only shaking a little, they sit down on the bed.

In the few minutes they’ve been conscious their headache has gotten much worse, but hey: they can walk.

“Alright,” they whisper. “This is… good.” Is it? They’re actually not sure. Their magic is turning and warping a lot more than it was before and while their legs ( _lack_ of legs) don’t hurt, their head actually feels like it’s trying to kill them.

 _If anything could kill you, probably overusing the Horizon with a human brain would have the best shot,_ the voice in their head drawls, and the Horizon in Moonjumper’s chest buzzes in panicked agreement because _he’s right_ — they cut off their magic immediately, including that which is occupied with dulling the pain from their legs — 

And they collapse on the bed, agony whiting out their ability to think for a terrible moment that leaves them panting on their back even after they flip that part of their magic back on.

Whereupon a headache once again stirs behind their eyes.

Moonjumper allows themself a quiet groan. 

But if this is the reality they’re facing, then there’s no point in wasting time moping. Moonjumper clasps their hands together and sets to work trying to find a balance between burning their brain out with more magic than human bodies were ever adapted for and facing the physical pain that accompanies extreme damage to said body.

In the end it’s just one more issue (albeit a rather significant one) added to the list of things which have happened to them that they will simply have to work around. It does reignite another problem, though: however lonely or comforting it might personally be to finally accept that they _are_ Luka, the fact remains that Snatcher _loathes_ the man they once were. Their identity may validate their place in and responsibility to Subcon, but this has also been Snatcher’s home for fifty years; it’s wrong of them to lie, even by omission, about who he’s let into his forest.

So: Moonjumper is going to have to come clean to Snatcher.

The idea of revealing who they are to the ghost they’ve come to care for is _terrifying,_ not least because they know how strongly Snatcher feels about Luka. They can only hope that his unwilling fondness for _them_ outweighs his feelings about who Moonjumper used to be.

They’re sure their knees would be quaking if they had any. As it is, their spine prickles and they can’t help fiddling with the chains of their shackles as they lift themself off the bed. Their headache is blessedly minor, the phantom pains bad but bearable — this is going to be uncomfortable, but Moonjumper can do this.

They leave behind the bed, the dark shadows surrounding the glowing embers of the hearth, and the warmth of the stone walls for the icy night outdoors. They take a deep breath to clear their mind. Then Moonjumper sets off to look for their friend.

They make it perhaps three un-present steps before someone _shrieks_ and Moonjumper leaps even farther into the air, swinging their cane towards the sound on instinct. It connects with a very soft _whmph_ and the clatter of dropped branches. “Stop, stop, what the fuck!!” the voice screams, and they drop their cane in shock at the glowing face of a Subconite peering up at them from its place holding onto the wooden staff.

“Don’t _swear_ —” they start, strangled, but the dead child’s ghost continues shouting with the tenacity of an enraged mother bear — directed _at them._

“What are you even doing out of bed? Are you _floating_ ? Did you know you could do that? But you should be resting, not — this! Oh gods, Snatcher’s gonna kill me. Oh, gods, _can_ he kill me? Rip my seams open, maybe. _Did you know you could float_ ? That seems like the kind of information you should have shared,” it says, accusatory voice raising higher in both volume and pitch as it goes. “I leave for _ten minutes_ to collect firewood and you pull _this_!?”

“I’m, ah,” Moonjumper says, still blinking down in astonishment at the little thing as it returns their cane to them and collects its dropped bundle of firewood with the efficiency of a practiced shopkeep. “I’m… sorry?” This Subconite doesn’t move with the bouncing, loosely frenetic energy of the other bound ghosts; even when it turns its face toward the ground and away from Moonjumper, it is with a level of purpose the other bound ghosts tend to lack.

It plucks up something from the soil and bops it with a mittened hand. The mushroom lights up with startling bioluminescence, revealing the form of a frazzled-looking Subconite on whom they recognize their own unpracticed stitches — this is the same one Snatcher had them help sew together.

“I didn’t know those mushrooms did that,” Moonjumper blurts out, like an idiot.

“I didn’t know you _floated_ ,” the bound ghost retorts. The glowing spiral of its face oscillates with clear anxiety. Moonjumper has to bite their lip, feeling guilty for distressing it even as they recognize that they aren’t entirely responsible here. It’s just that the little thing looks so _miserable._

“I truly am sorry,” they say. “Ah, I _also_ didn’t know I could float? Until recently, that is. Um.” The dizzying spin of the Subconite’s ghostly light is starting to become distracting. Moonjumper needs to find Snatcher, but… “Are _you_ alright, little one?”

“Oh, I’m _peachy_ ,” it says, shifting whip-fast from self-pitying to furious — with _Moonjumper,_ of course. Bewildered, their shoulders start to hunch up around their ears as the Subconite gains steam. “It seemed like things were finally changing around here so I figured maybe I’d let myself be bound, because _surely_ it wouldn’t be worse than being an eternally dissociated, ever-present spirit — but _then_ it turns out that Snatcher isn’t _really_ in charge of all these dead kids and, honestly, what was I supposed to do, let them continue to run amok unsupervised? At least, I say to myself, at least these two _magically skilled adults_ will be able to handle themselves, right?? Uh, _wrong,_ because then _you_ go into the manor like some kind of gods-damned _idiot_ , get hurt, and then the _other_ idiot—” 

“I’m sorry, excuse me,” Moonjumper interrupts quietly, wincing but unable to stop themself because beneath all of their identity crises they truly are just a fool — and besides that, they can see a number of other glowing faces in the surrounding woods cautiously poking out in interest. “I don’t mean to derail you, but you, ah, _really_ ought not to use that kind of language? The other children might hear you, and it’s not appropriate—”

“I HAVE IT ON GOOD AUTHORITY,” thunders the ghost occupying a form made of recycled hand puppets, “THAT I WAS AN ADULT WHEN I DIED!”

“A-alright then,” Moonjumper stutters, regretting many things. The bound ghost continues ranting, apparently oblivious to their discomfort. While they can understand that it is having a rough day, they really do need to find Snatcher.

The little thing isn’t very large, it occurs to them (although certainly it _feels_ intimidating). Possibly they could edge around it while it’s distracted with its monologue?

“—and apparently I was a florist in life,” the Subconite continues as it throws its arms up in the air, “so _clearly_ I had my act together then because that job, at least, probably didn’t involve taking care of this many _fucking idiots_ —”

“Wait,” says Moonjumper, mouth moving faster than their own mind. “The florist? You used to be — you mean the florist from _Probonough_ ??” They stare at the bound ghost, who merely wrinkles the fabric of its face in a combination of irritation and confusion. But that expression could look right at home on a young woman’s face framed with long red hair, judging their obvious lack of knowledge when it came to which flowers to buy for his fiancée. “Are you — _Florence_?”

“Oh,” says the Subconite. “Er.” It stares up at Moonjumper, in whose chest the Horizon thrums with anticipation. Then it puts a little mittened hand to its chest, as though searching for a heartbeat. “...ack,” she whispers.

“You _are,_ ” they say, delight burning away everything else that had been occupying their mind until this moment. Moonjumper launches themself at her, scooping her up into an elated, spinning hug. “Florence! I haven’t seen you since—” _before Vanessa killed me and every other person in Subcon_ — “um! I am. I am so sorry, I am doing this all wrong, let me just—”

They set the dead young woman back on her feet and kneel before her as much as they can — right, no legs, so floating, but that’s fine, Moonjumper can handle that — and clear their throat, searching their memories for the girl who grew up a few years behind Luka in Probonough. Where to begin the story to properly send her off? “Alright. So: Once upon a time—”

“Hey, _no,_ ” Florence snaps, her clear alarm like a cold rainfall to Moonjumper. “Do _not_ send me off! I just got here, and you guys clearly can’t take care of yourselves. Honestly I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I — er. Afterlive with myself? …Listen,” she says, flapping a quick hand in the air between them, “I’m _staying,_ at least until Snatcher heals up, okay? Maybe we can talk about — about _Florence_ afterwards.”

“I—?” says Moonjumper. She’s brought up a number of things that have their curiosity burning, but their magic is suddenly roaring like a bonfire. Their voice, when they manage to speak again, buzzes hard with unreality. “Did you say… Snatcher’s hurt?”

“Oh,” Florence says. She sighs quietly, looking down, and the Horizon at Moonjumper’s core _twists._ “He… Moonjumper, the queen came after you,” she says quietly. “Snatcher stopped her, but… it cost him a lot of his souls.”

“Where,” they ask, mouth dry, and the fabric of her face creases in innocent confusion.

“Didn’t you see him in the house?” she says. “He hasn’t left your side all week.”

Moonjumper doesn’t stop to consider unimportant things like the laws of reality. They warp space on autopilot — they are in the bones of the house Snatcher has helped them build and they search it with a single-minded, panic-driven determination. She said Snatcher was here. She said he was hurt. He’s their friend, and he went up against Vanessa because of them — **where is he.**

Their magic buzzes and cracks because they don’t see him, they _don’t see him,_ they can’t see unbound ghosts because Moonjumper is not just human they’re _Horizon_ and so they aren’t made to see the spirits of mortals, can only see them when they’re bound to a physical form or have been fed on souls and she said he’d used those souls to fight Vanessa because Luka was so _stupid_ as to go to her again — it’s _their fault,_ they got Snatcher hurt, they cost him his souls and the afterlife he’s been building, is he just a shade again? How many souls did he lose, how many will Moonjumper have to take to bring him back? Will Snatcher even _remember_ them?

“Moonjumper!” Florence yells as she enters the house but what does it matter? _What does it matter_? Snatcher is gone and it is unequivocally Moonjumper’s fault. They escaped Vanessa by trading their pathetic existence for his, they took away Snatcher’s chance at the growth and change they knew he deserved, they are as bad or worse than their princess ever was —

“Would you _relax!_ ” Florence hollers, thrusting the bioluminescent mushroom into the dark shadows cast by the dying embers against the bedframe. The shadows scatter in the blue light — except for one, not much larger than she is, that stays in a dark coil in the space between the hearth and the bed. Moonjumper would have to have stepped right over it when they were experimenting with walking. “He’s fine, he’s right here!!”

And _he is_ — smaller than Moonjumper has ever seen him, glowing eyes and mouth closed and nearly invisible against his dark form, curled up like a snake. He doesn’t react at all to the light Florence is holding by him, nor when Moonjumper falls to their non-existent knees and reaches out a trembling hand.

The heat he gives off is more like a candle than the fireplace-heat Moonjumper has become accustomed to, but he's still _warm._ That much is enough to bring Moonjumper back to the present: 

Florence is rubbing their back in soothing circles. Their magic-induced headache has spiked to nearly unbearable levels. Big, fat tears are rolling down their face.

“He’s fine,” the dead woman whispers. “I’m sorry I scared you, I’m not very good with my words, I didn’t mean to suggest — but he’s fine, Moonjumper, just exhausted from pushing back the queen. He needs to rest, eat some more souls, and he’ll be right as rain again, okay? He’s fine, Moonjumper. Everything is okay.”

But Moonjumper can’t bring themself to extend their hand the last inch to touch Snatcher, because things aren’t really okay. Because Snatcher is still here but he’s _hurt._ Because maybe Vanessa was the one who did this to Snatcher, but Moonjumper was the one who brought her to him. Because Snatcher being injured is _their_ fault.

Worse than that, though, is that as they stare at his small, still form, so much weaker than they’ve ever seen him, Moonjumper realizes that they aren’t ready to lose Snatcher’s friendship yet. When they had thought him gone to them, they had been moments from tearing apart the house, the forest, all of Subcon — just because the prospect of continuing existence without this caustic, rude, mocking ghost had been so unbearable.

Morally, Moonjumper is obligated to tell Snatcher the truth about who they used to be and how that informs who they are now. But Snatcher _loathes_ the prince, more than anything else in this world.

Moonjumper stares at Snatcher, how the few souls he has left slowly oscillating across his still form. They put their hand down without touching him.

They can’t tell him that they’re Luka. Not yet.

***

Moonjumper goes back to bed with a hand dangling off their bed, just close enough to Snatcher that they can feel his presence in the heat he gives off. They stare at him as long as they’re able before their own exhaustion takes them to sleep.

The next time they wake up, Snatcher is gone.

They don’t see him again for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: general self-loathing; pain and pain management; distressing dreams, including depiction of luka's imprisonment and death; rejection from another version of oneself; adapting to major body changes/disability; talk of death and passing on; blaming oneself for an abuser's retaliatory actions against another; dissociation and arguably a panic attack; actively deciding to lie about one's identity to someone who probably ought to know.
> 
> 1\. we're at the 2-month anniversary of this fic and have hit 50k! it's like a half-pace nanowrimo :) i've worked harder on longer projects, but never on something that has actually produced so much readable material just for fun! anyways i'm glad to be doing this and that folks are interested... ;-; ...ok moving on!  
> 2\. it has always been the plan to skip the vanessa-snatcher battle and go right into the repercussions; genuinely it never even occurred to me that folks might expect to see the action, whoops. sorry buds this fic is first n foremost about Relationships, Recovery, and Shenanigans. we'll eventually learn a bit more about what exactly happened, but most of the altercation was tbh not that important. i CAN tell you tho that at some point snatcher probably put a lot of well-meaning effort into comforting vanessa :(  
> 3\. there were so many dark timelines this fic could have taken at this point. fortunately for you all i am a wimp and didn't see the point of putting these two through more pain than i felt was necessary for their growth as people. they both have so much to learn (covers face w hands... SO MUCH) but darn it, they're going to end up as a happy family >:O !!  
> 4\. i know lots of folks have come up w cute n clever names for the florist but i just wanted something i'd remember lmao. also she's FUN it turns out??? she'll be good for mj and snatcher but also she's like twenty and would prefer to skateboard away from these two idiots' nonsense, she's had to scream BOTH of them out of dangerous freakouts, someone get this girl a rum neat and leave the bottle.  
> 5\. BONUS: [here's](https://cartoonsaint.tumblr.com/post/624362167275225088/luka-gets-a-tattoo) a lil bit i wrote about the prince getting a tattoo. i wanted him to have some niceness in his life but ough, was it worth it D:  
> 6\. sorry i'm not v good at replying to comments i am SO shy. plz know i read them all and irl blush about them. sometimes also i chuckle evilly about them for DAYS 8)
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: MJ started using their magic in ways dangerous to their health; an exhausted Snatcher was revealed to have lost many of the souls that give him his form and memories; MJ's friendship w Snatcher was too important to put at risk, so they decided not to tell him that they were once Luka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PROGRAMMING NOTE: if you read the last chapter in the first few hours after it went up, it was missing the little stinger at the end. It's since been added back in but here it is again for your convenience:
> 
> >Moonjumper goes back to bed with a hand dangling off their bed, just close enough to Snatcher that they can feel his presence in the heat he gives off. They stare at him as long as they’re able before their own exhaustion takes them to sleep.
> 
> >The next time they wake up, Snatcher is gone.
> 
> >They don’t see him again for a long, long time.
> 
> See end notes for content warnings.

As a tapestry is woven on supporting threads that are hidden from the average viewer, the Horizon is unreachable, ever-present, and vital to the existence of spacetime. It is the base on which the universe creates itself. Without the Horizon, the fabric of reality could not hold itself together; it would simply unravel.

On occasion, however, there are imperfections. A slip of the wrist or a missed pick allows a thread or two of the backing to show through — and so, in certain times and places, magic comes to life.

Moonjumper hasn’t yet figured out how to turn the threads of others’ magic to their advantage, but in the past few months they’ve learned a lot about using the vivid red of their own abilities to get around their personal limitations. They can exist without life, walk without legs, bend space to store objects or teleport. And while their many books on magic offer a decent base of knowledge, they’ve figured out by now that often the best way to learn about themself is to roll up their sleeves and put in the work.

Sometimes literally.

Despite the cold, Moonjumper has neatly rolled up the sleeves on their button-down shirt and discarded their cloak on the snow-packed earth. They hold a razor-sharp thread of magic taut between both hands and, with extreme care, carve away at the icy column before them.

One day, perhaps, they will puzzle out how to unravel magic that has already taken form. One day, perhaps, they will be able to undo what Vanessa has done. For now, they use what they have and do what they can.

At last, Moonjumper takes a step back and laces their fingers together, considering their work. There’s a certain amount of pride to be found in how much they’ve improved since their first attempt at something like this. The form is still frozen through, of course, but they’ve removed as much ice as they could and done no damage. It will have to do.

They kneel (rather, they go through the motions of kneeling) and dematerialize away a perfectly rectangular prism of the frozen ground, cutting past the permafrost and creating a six-foot-deep hole in the earth. Soft, living dirt crumbles in from the sides, perfect for their needs.

Carefully, they slide a thin garotte of magic beneath the figure’s base to separate it from the frozen ground; when it falls forwards, a few rope-thick threads help them catch it in their arms. Said threads assist them in slowly lowering their burden into the hole they’ve made in the ground, whereupon they gently release it to lie in the fresh earth.

Emilia may be long dead, but of course they’re going to be careful with her remains.

Moonjumper takes one last look at the body of their oldest friend and wishes that the fear on her face weren’t so strong, that things had ended differently, that Vanessa hadn’t done half of what she did. Then they rematerialize enough dirt to cover her body, hang their cloak in a curtain of privacy around them with a few red threads, untie their mask and set it aside.

“Hey, Emilia. It’s Lu,” they say, smiling faintly at the un-iced earth. “I know your ghost has been gone for a while now, but I didn’t really get to say goodbye back then so… I just wanted to take the chance to do so now.”

Moonjumper doesn’t show themself a lot of kindness these days. They try to make themself as small as possible, take up as little space in Subcon as they can manage, and do exactly and only as is requested of them. For every body they bury, though, they take a few minutes behind a curtain and without their mask to say goodbye as Luka.

It’s not for Moonjumper, really, so much as it is a gift to their past self. That person deserved kindness; the least they can give them is this.

So Moonjumper lets themself be Luka for a little while to say goodbye to the woman they grew up seeing as a sister. Then they brush away the tears, redon their mask, and dismiss the magic that holds their cloak so that they can settle it once more over their shoulders.

They’re exhausted, and their headache is approaching levels that are almost certainly dangerous for them, but there’s still so much left to do. Yes, the only contract they have right now asks simply that they “Eventually Bury the Dead of Subcon,” but if it’s what Snatcher wants then they ought to do so as soon as possible. They can handle some more magic today.

At least, that’s their plan until they spot a Subconite waving at them from the edge of the forest. The Horizon leaps in their chest — another contract! Maybe this time they’ll even see—? They waste no time with running, simply teleporting over to the little thing and squatting (as it were) on their level, hands tight around their cane. The bound ghost jumps in surprise.

“Sorry,” they say, still a little hoarse. “I did not mean to startle you — but, where—?”

The little thing makes the sign for “house” and Moonjumper stands, ready to go immediately. But they themself jump when the ghost grabs their hand in a little mitten and turns its face up to theirs.

“Ah,” they say, Horizon fluctuating unpleasantly in their chest. They quickly squash down on all the pain they can, hoping it’s not leaking out anywhere near the little thing — they’d rather deal with the worsened headache later than have anyone else feel even a fraction of what they do. “You don’t have to — um, I know it is sometimes painful to, to be this close to my magic, so — likely it is better for me to go alone?”

Sinkingly, Moonjumper recognizes that the set of the ghost’s hood is one of determination. They want to twitch their hand away, pull back and hide under the cloak, but the little Subconite stubbornly holds on. And if Snatcher is waiting for them…

“Alright,” they sigh, and the bound ghost leaps into the air in apparent joy. When it sets its feet on solid ground again, Moonjumper has transported them into the stone cabin.

The very morning that Snatcher disappeared from the house, Moonjumper had found a contract left beside the bed asking that they “Complete the Roof” written not in the neat, upper-class-standard script they had become accustomed to, but in a messy scrawl. They had been confused until realizing that, without enough souls, Snatcher may very well have lost access to his human-shaped form. They could just imagine the ghost painstakingly writing out the contract with the two-fingered paws of his more monstrous shape — and  _ immediately _ they felt guilty, resolving to apologize to him as soon as they next saw him.

That was nearly three months ago. They’re still holding onto that apology.

Since Moonjumper so foolishly went back to the manor, they’ve received no shortage of contracts (Build Yourself Some Bookshelves. Buy Glass Panes for Your Windows. Send Off the Ghost by the Body to the Right of the Post Office.) but they have seen neither tooth nor tail of Snatcher.

Which is  _ fine. _ Moonjumper cost Snatcher an untold number of souls, souls that he’s been collecting for the past half century — they wouldn’t want to see themself either in his position. They didn’t deserve that kind of sacrifice, of course, but through their foolish behavior they had put Snatcher in the position of either protecting them or letting Vanessa destroy even more of Subcon than she already had. He’d had no choice.

The least Moonjumper can do now is push through some discomfort so that Snatcher can more quickly get back to an existence without an idiotic, selfish prat like them burning down everything he’s worked for.

_ You’re handling this well,  _ says a dry voice in Moonjumper’s head, but they squash it down, looking around the house with a furrowed brow. When they left the place two days ago the fireplace had been unlit. Now a warm fire crackles merrily, casting light throughout the stone cabin.

The Horizon leaps in their chest — could Snatcher have been here? Could he have been the one to light the fire? Why would he waste his reserves on  _ them _ ? — when they catch wind of something moving outside. They’ve thrown the door open before they can think about it, Horizon twisting in anxious hope, striding through to see —

“Oh,” Moonjumper says, disappointed. “It’s you.”

Florence, hard at work in the sunken garden they carved out for her, scowls at them with such disdain that they can see it despite her lack of facial features. “Good to see you, too, Moon.”

“Sorry,” they say, and they really do mean it, but they sag against the stone wall of the house as their exhaustion once more catches. Their headache pounds dangerously in the background, ready to return as soon as they drop their guard. “I thought…”

“Yeah, I know,” Florence says, not unkindly. She climbs out of the sunken garden, carrying cuttings and leaves that Moonjumper can’t recognize with their current overuse of the Horizon. “Sit, please.”

They try to hide their wince, glancing at the stump that has become their unofficial seat for the florist’s ministrations. “I thought Snatcher was having you work with the bomb cherry garden?” they ask evasively.

“I have time for both projects,” she replies firmly. “Now  _ sit, _ Moonjumper, or I’ll bust your damn kneecaps.”

“That threat does not carry much weight these days, you know,” Moonjumper says, but they obediently sink onto the stump and cut the magic that lets them walk. Their threatening headache becomes a little less dangerous; they sigh, relieved. “Does… does he know you’re wasting your time with this?”

“It’s not a waste,” Florence says as she drops her plants into a cracked mortar and pestle and begins to grind. “It’s just a matter of time til we find something that works, Moon.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She snorts dismissively as she scoops the floral paste onto a leaf that folds up into a neat little packet. “I’ve already told both of you I’m not going to be your go-between. If you care so much about what each other thinks, you’re going to have to talk to one other.”

But Moonjumper barely hears that last sentence, the Horizon in their chest spiking in hope. “Did you say — _both_ of us? He asks about me?”

The look she gives them is incredibly unimpressed. “Drop your magic, Moon.”

“Florence,” they plead.

“No. Now drop your damn magic, it’s not good for you to keep it up this long and we need to test this without interference.” She holds up the plant packet and Moonjumper can’t help but make a face. “Listen, the sooner we eliminate these as potential fixes, the sooner we’ll find the right one.” When they hesitate, she reaches a hand beneath her cloak and pulls out a scroll. “And the sooner you’ll get your next contract, too.”

The Horizon leaps in their chest. They reach a hand out and Florence pulls away, holding the contract just out of reach. They could snag it with their threads, of course, but they  _ have  _ been running their magic hard lately and as much as they feel this whole endeavor is a waste of resources, it  _ would  _ be nice to not have to choose between magic-induced headaches and the burning cold pain of their legs…

“Alright,” they sigh, tensing in preparation, when something soft touches their free hand. They glance down to find the little Subconite from before hugging their arm with its whole body, face turned away. “Ah, little one,” they say, softening. “I’m about to let my pain loose — you should step away.”

But the little thing shakes its head and holds on tighter. Florence sighs. “They’re not going to let go. It’ll go quicker if you just let them help.”

Moonjumper frowns. Many of the Subconites have by now figured out that absorbing the warped squares of their magic lessens Moonjumper’s pain, but that comes with the price of the bound ghosts experiencing it instead. Moonjumper hates to put them in that position, so they have been avoiding the dead children as much as possible; sometimes, though, they sneak up on them.

“Moon, just accept the help.”

Moonjumper hates this. But Snatcher’s next contract is right there, tantalizingly out of reach, and the little Subconite is clutching them so tightly that they would feel bad even trying to disentangle themself. So they press a hand to their face to muffle a groan and release the magic that prevents them from feeling their body’s pain.

For a long minute the  _ agony fire-cold sharpness  _ of their missing legs and the  _ vibrating twisting squeezing  _ of their head are the only things Moonjumper can focus on. Gradually the world comes back to them as they acclimate to the feeling, gritting their teeth and blinking away the tears. One hand clutches the cane Snatcher gave them while the other is held by the shaking Subconite; both help.

“Alright,” they whisper, and Florence pops the packet of herbs into their mouth. They chew quickly and swallow; the Horizon within them separates out each molecule of matter and…

“Nothing,” Moonjumper manages. Florence groans, throwing her head back. They give her a shaky smile. “Could I have Snatcher’s contract now? Please?”

She’s already climbing back down into the little garden below the permafrost, muttering to herself, but she tosses the scroll into their lap. The little bound ghost won’t let go; Moonjumper has to lean their cane on the side of the stump so they have a free hand with which to unroll the contract, hope and anxiety warring within them.

“Go Shopping,” the contract declares, followed by a short list of materials used for the traps. No books or any other requests. Moonjumper actually flips it over to check if there’s more, but there’s nothing. The hand holding the contract shakes a little bit.

Of course there’s nothing. Snatcher probably hates them, and Moonjumper can’t blame him. They are useful only in that they can do some things that Snatcher can’t; hope for anything else from the ghost is foolish.

“...Moonjumper?”

They really are just the  _ worst. _

“Moon, hey.”

The sharp, near-overwhelming pain lessens a little. Moonjumper shakes their head, feeling a bit dazed, and glances down to find that a shuddering Florence has her hand on their hip. “Oh, Florence, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she grinds out. Moonjumper falls silent. “I  _ want  _ to help, Moon. I’m going to find something that helps with your pain, okay? We just don’t have much of a selection here in the cold, so it’s going to take some time.”

Moonjumper forces on a smile for her. “That’s very kind of you, but it really is alright. I can handle this on my own.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” she snaps. “You  _ don’t  _ have to.”

Moonjumper finds they have nothing to say.

“...Listen,” she finally says. “There’s this plant called the Rosastrum magirou. It doesn’t grow here, but you should be able to buy it in Academia.” She stares at them for a moment, expression even more unreadable than usual, and Moonjumper’s shoulders start to hitch up around their ears. “It’ll help Snatcher's bomb cherries grow better. Could you add it to your list?”

“Ah!” Moonjumper relaxes as much as they can through the pain. “If it’s for — of course, of course. I’ll head out now, then—”

“No!”

Moonjumper blinks down at Florence, whose ghostly light swirls even more rapidly than usual.

“A-actually, the treatment we just tried needs time to work its way into your system. You need to rest.”

Dismay fills Moonjumper — Snatcher really asks so little of them, and they’re wasting time — but Florence’s hood is positioned in a way that suggests a jutting jaw and they can just imagine what it would have looked like on her living face. “Alright,” they sigh, recognizing defeat.

Her little fabric shoulders slump in relief. “Okay! Good. Let’s get you to bed, you’re going to need, um, at least eight hours…”

***

After Moonjumper’s gradual, sinking realization that Snatcher was going to avoid them for the foreseeable future, they had started to pin their copies of the contracts on the walls of the stone house he’d had them build. At least that way they would have clear evidence that Snatcher had been and remained conscious, rather than totally lost like the unbound ghosts with no souls sustaining them. That practice, however, had quickly become unnerving — the parallels to the third floor of Vanessa’s manor were all too obvious, even to them — and now, along with most other items that can be said to belong to them, they carry their contracts in the Horizonspace.

Their books, though, they leave on the bookshelves in the stone house. While they’d prefer not to let themself get too comfortable in a place they’re borrowing from Snatcher, they’ve noticed that sometimes the books on magic are in slightly different places than they left them. They suspect (rather, they hope) that the ghost has been sneaking in to read them when Moonjumper is out completing contracts and they don’t want to get in his way any more than is absolutely necessary.

So Moonjumper fiddles with a chain as they call forth their latest contract once again, eyeing the handwriting (slightly improved since three months ago, but they suspect this is through practice rather than his shape changing) and ignoring the background noise. They still haven’t found a way of collecting souls to make up for what they forced Snatcher into that doesn’t involve the victim’s death or becoming braindead. Could Snatcher have found new victims, though? None of the Subconites will tell them…

“—which is when Bow, who has been completely quiet up til this point, by the way, says, ‘You’ve  _ goat  _ to be  _ kidding _ me!’”

Though Moonjumper had been prepared to do whatever it took when they had thought Snatcher was completely out of souls, they know now that his using them against Vanessa only weakened him. Thus the idea of doing to someone what Snatcher had done to that young man, just for the sake of  _ power _ … They shudder. They’re not sure they could do it.

“Come on, ‘goat’? ‘Kidding’? I thought you’d get a kick out of that one.”

But at the same time… they truly owe Snatcher, and they promised they would get him at least one soul to replace the one they stole back for that foolish youth. It’s been months since then, and even the most cutting-edge research they can find on the subject of souls has been useless. Surely Snatcher is getting impatient; surely they will have to make a move soon.

“MJ? ...Oh, I see.”

Moonjumper frowns down at the contract, running their fingers along the shaky penmanship. Maybe if they can find a way to transport the soul of a person who is already dying—?

Two hands clap down on Moonjumper’s shoulders. They jump, startled, and automatically dematerialize the contract into their Horizonspace. “MOONJUMPER,” shouts Tim from two inches away.

“WHAT,” they yelp.

“I WAS TELLING A VERY FUNNY JOKE BUT YOU WERE TOO BUSY BEING SAD ABOUT YOUR RUDE FRIEND,” Tim yells with utter cheer.

“Ah, I’m so sorry!” Moonjumper gasps, pressing a hand to their face in a habit they haven’t lost from life, when their cheeks would still heat up from embarrassment. “You’re right, I was distracted — Tim, I am  _ so  _ sorry, I really am mortified—”

“It’s fine, chum,” Tim says breezily, but he firms up his grip on their shoulders and turns them towards the back of the store, kindly but forcefully directing Moonjumper through the beaded curtain into the back room. “But it’s been some time now since you started mooning about because of this friend of yours, hasn’t it? Sit with me and let’s talk. I’ll make tea.”

“Ah,” says Moonjumper, attempting to backpedal and finding it more difficult without legs. “N-no, that’s quite alright, I don’t want you to have to go to any trouble for me—”

“It’s no trouble,” Tim replies. “Look, I’ve got some lapsang souchong — I’ll even oversteep it for you so it’ll be nice and smoky and bitter. Then we can chat about your smoky, bitter friend, eh?”

“Tim,” Moonjumper protests, but the old man (though today his hair is darker and his step more sprightly) pushes them down into a seat and pats them briskly on the head.

“I’ll hear no buts about it, you need to talk with someone and I’d be quite happy if it were me. Now—”

“Anyone in here?” someone calls from the front room of the Time’s End; Tim makes a curious noise rather like a  _ mreep? _ “Hello? Tim?”

Tim exhales in a way that on another person might almost be called a sigh. “I’ll be right back, MJ.” He makes to leave — then, quickly, he spins around to wag a suspicious finger in their face. “ _ Don’t leave, _ alright?” And then he’s gone, the bead curtain clacking gently behind him. Moonjumper is alone in an unfamiliar space.

_ I’m going to leave immediately,  _ Moonjumper realizes, and stands up at once to go. 

_ You can’t just walk out!  _ another part of them says.  _ Kid, this could be good for you  _ — but that voice hurts so Moonjumper quickly squashes it down. They meant to buy some more books today but those will just have to wait —

“Moonjumper!” Tim calls. “Come out here, there’s someone I  _ must  _ introduce you to!!”

Internally, they say one of the words that Florence favors. But Tim sticks his head through the curtain, observes their clear preparation for departure, and grins brightly while snagging Moonjumper’s cape and  _ yanking _ them into the front of the store.

“This is Thor,” he says, gesturing to a sun-tanned man with a waxed mustache. Moonjumper has seen him before in the Time’s End, even spoken to him briefly — there’s something about his accent that makes a very childish version of themself want to ask him to say “crikey” — but there’s something else in this moment that has Moonjumper openly staring at the man.

Moonjumper can see magic in the form of red-tinted string wrapped or tied around a person’s core. Thor has never had any before, being an entirely unmagical person — but today a vibrant red thread wraps twice around him and then  _ continues,  _ trailing a long, long line through the shop and out the door.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Jumper,” Thor says blithely.

“G-good to meet you as well,” they manage, but their voice sounds very far away. Magic is concentrated in the soul. How can part of it be linked elsewhere…?

Tim asks them a question that they barely stumble through. Thor says something clever; Tim responds in kind. Moonjumper stares, wondering if Florence’s most recent concoction could belatedly be making them hallucinate, as Thor purchases a few books, waves to them both, and closes the door behind him with the faint tinkle of the bell.

“Well! That didn’t go as I thought it would.”

“Sorry?” Moonjumper says dazedly, shaking their head and turning to look at the old man.

Tim is frowning down at one of the strange bracelets he wears while he murmurs to himself. “I thought… fix the plot hole, but… can’t get it right all the time…”

“Tim,” Moonjumper says. They’re unsure if the world is moving in slow motion or speeding by.

“Hm?”

The world suddenly seems vibrant in a way it hasn’t been in months. The store is a little stuffy. The late afternoon light illuminates the dust motes still swirling in the air from Thor’s departure. The Horizon within them buzzes with a nearly intoxicating thrill. “I have to go,” they say.

Tim frowns up at them, brow already furrowing, but Moonjumper claps their trembling hands down on his shoulders and looks him right in the eye, willing him to understand.

“...Well!” Tim says, a smile breaking over his own face. “Go get him, then!”

“Thank you!” Moonjumper shouts over their shoulder, already slamming the other shoulder into the door and bursting out onto the street. Which way—? They go left on a whim, keeping their eyes peeled for particularly vibrant magic, their own dancing and flitting around them in the kind of excited drive to  _ know  _ that they haven’t felt in much too long.

_ There!  _ Moonjumper spots a long line of red leading to one of the plazas. They dash after it, hoping, and spot a familiar hat disappearing down an alley. “Hey — hey!! Wait!”

Thor doesn’t notice, so they put on a burst of magic-enhanced speed and take a corner with a swing of their strings that nearly has them flying. “Wait!! Please, I beg you, wait—!”

And Thor turns from the person he’d just been speaking with, one of the just-purchased books on introductory magic already open in his hands. His companion is lanky, barely dressed in an open shirt, and has a face masked by some impressive facial hair. Moonjumper doesn’t even recognize him at first, too distracted by the single thread of pale magic tied around the young man’s core.

It’s been mellowed out since they last saw it, its color presumably leeching into the other threads of his soul — but it’s still there, tied in an efficient knot that is vaguely surprising to Moonjumper. They would not have expected to have had the consideration to tie that type of knot when they’d been so desperately attempting to reattach this young man’s soul to his body and spirit. Yet there it is, a thread of their own magic; and it looks to have made itself right at home in the soul of an otherwise non-magical person.

From the youngster’s pointed finger, reality-bending sparks fly. His face is furious — and his fury is directed at Moonjumper. “ _ You!! _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: self-loathing (ughhh mj please...); burial of body; obsessive behavior and unhealthy relationships; self-harming behavior tbh; depressive episode; chronic pain management (and failure to manage); mild dissociation.
> 
> 1\. i hope i'm clever enough to come up w a way to call this group The Cut Characters Club in-fic but probably i'm not :'D  
> 2\. the path to healing is not an easy or simple one. mj here has taken 2 steps forward, 1 step back, 3 steps to the side? ok, now they've got a shovel and... yes, it looks like they're digging themself a hole. ok. that's fine, that's great. we'll just have to get em outta this depression next chapter (haha, bc a depression is both a literal hole and a... ok i'll shut up).  
> 3\. unreliable narrators are fun, esp when their unreliability comes from being a lil dumb about stuff. florence like "i am manipulating u LITERALLY for own good please just TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF you DUMBASS" *does a furious kickflip*  
> 4\. putting my subconite Joy in this fic is literally just [this](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/75/ff/97/75ff97f6949f3a7e0c7edcae32a4c5d7--spongebob-memes-spongebob-squarepants.jpg).  
> 5\. part of what drew me to this story is the ability to play with both snatcher and moonjumper recreating unhealthy aspects of their rship w vanessa with each other (if u haven't seen [doodledrawsthings's take on this](https://doodledrawsthings.tumblr.com/post/615884299726651392/a-while-back-someone-asked-me-to-draw-the), please do omg wat have u even been doing??). both bois have got a ways to go but darn it i'm going to drag these two into healthy rships w themselves and each other if it kills them (side note: i'm not gonna kill em. they're already dead anyways LMAOOOOO WHAT LOSERS RIGHT). for the next little bit we'll focus on mj but snatcher won't escape recovery either >:3  
> 6\. tim FUN.
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: For months, Moonjumper was miserable, alone, and missing Snatcher. Friends attempted to get them out of that rut, but no one succeeded until MJ was surprised by some non-magical folks who suddenly had magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POSTING QUICKLY BEFORE MY WIFI CRAPS OUT AGAIN AHHHH
> 
> See end notes for content warnings.

“It’s not a club,” Moonjumper insists, and gets a fabric boot to the chin. “ _Oof_ — ah, little one, if you wouldn’t mind—?”

“It _sounds_ like a club,” Florence says from somewhere in the sunken garden. They have no idea where, exactly, because there are currently three giggling Subconites scrambling over their shoulders and head, playing some sort of game that incidentally blocks Moonjumper’s vision. “You all meet up once a week to practice and learn more about a shared interest. How is that not a club?”

“Just because we are all studying magic does not make it a _shared_ interest,” they correct. The Subconites settle slightly, hanging off their arms and lap to start a hand game that Moonjumper doesn’t recognize but hopes will last for the rest of their session. “We’re in entirely different fields. Thor is researching the use of magic in non-magical people, Youngster is trying to get a handle on having received magic as an adult, Tim says he can’t use magic himself, and I—”

“—am a nerd,” Florence interrupts. She climbs one-handed out of the sunken garden, the other holding a bouquet that she eyes with some satisfaction. “You’re four nerds who meet up to talk about magic and souls and crap in your nerdy magic club. Accept it and move on, Moon.”

“That’s not how it works,” they say weakly, but thank her graciously when she passes them the bouquet — no need to be rude, after all. “We should head out soon, anyway.”

“Is it really time already?” she asks, twisting towards the late afternoon sun. “Are you sure you’ve let them take enough pain?”

“ _Yes_ ,” they reply with a huff. They dislike letting the little Subconites absorb the fractions of their magic that contain their physical pain, but it was the only way to get Florence to agree to learn more about her life (and it _does_ help… _and_ they couldn’t say no to the puppy dog faces of the rest of the bound ghosts, the darn sweethearts). “It’s been two hours, as agreed, and I’m sure Cecile is eager to see you again.”

“Oooh, Cissy, right!” Florence says, and hops back down into the sunken garden. Moonjumper resists the un-princely urge to groan. “I meant to bring her some daffodil bulbs, give me another minute—”

“One minute,” Moonjumper warns her, then taps the heads of the Subconites on their lap. “Alright, little ones, time to go. Thank you for your help — and make sure you each get some rest, I know how exhausting it can be to deal with my pain.”

“We know,” the three bound ghosts chorus as they clamber down off Moonjumper.

“And don’t feel any pressure to take a shift on again, I can handle it. You’re under no obligation.”

“We know,” they repeat. As the last one exits their cloud of warping squares and rectangles, Moonjumper flips on their numbing magic before the pain can debilitate them. The headache to which they’ve become accustomed takes its place and, with a mental pull of their red strings, they stand up from the stump, brushing down their clothes.

“And, if you don’t mind, if Snatcher asks after me this evening please remind him I’ll be home before midnight—”

“Mr. Moonjumper, we _know_!” one of the Subconites exclaims, exasperated. “Go have fun with your nerd club, we can handle Snatcher!”

“It’s not—!” Moonjumper protests, but when the little bound ghosts giggle they can’t help but smile at them. “Alright, you three. Don’t get in too much trouble while Florence and I are away.”

“No promises,” a ghost says cheerily, and off the group runs into the woods.

Moonjumper shakes their head fondly and peeks into the sunken garden. “Ready?”

“Ready!” Florence hauls a small bag over her shoulder; they extend a hand and easily pull her fabric form up out of the garden. She faux-gallantly places a mitten on the arm they offer her as they prepare to teleport. “It’s nice to see you smiling again, Moonjumper.”

“Ah?” Moonjumper says as they fold the fabric of space to land with a puff of air behind Probonough’s best cafe. “I didn’t realize I hadn’t been.”

“Been a while,” she says mildly, and without even knocking throws open the backdoor. “Cissy, I’m here!”

“Flo!” comes a delighted voice, and from the kitchen pokes out the head of the tall, older woman who once gave Moonjumper a free meal and story during the first day or so of their existence. “And Moonjumper! Will you be staying this time, dear?”

“Not today, but thank you very much for offering,” Moonjumper replies. They gesture to the bouquet of white flowers in their hands. “I have flowers to deliver, then another meeting to attend.”

“Nerd club, or so I hear,” Cecile teases as she stoops to embrace her dead sister, her grey-red braid falling across Florence’s cloak. “You sure? Flo and I are going to go over some of Probonough’s history today, try to gently jog some more memories. I know you enjoy listening to those stories.”

“I’m sure,” Moonjumper says, electing not to mention that in a different life they took extensive classes on the history of the town they were once set to rule. “You two have fun. Florence, if at any point you start feeling _unanchored_ or anything, don’t forget to take a break — being bound should protect you against being sent off, but there’s no need to strain your core. Ah, and remember not to walk home until it’s fully dark out, so no one sees you. And it really would be no trouble for me to come pick you up, you know—”

“Moonjumper, shut up,” she says brightly, separating from her sister to wave a dismissive mitten in their direction. “Go have fun, I can handle myself — Cissy. Cissy, are those the marigolds I gave you? Cissy _what the fuck have you done_.”

“Oops,” the woman says lightly as Florence scrambles into the living room, shrieking about root rot.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Moonjumper says, stepping back.

“No, wait,” Cecile says, and quietly hurries to their side. Her face is soft but serious as she lays a hand on their shoulder; they blink. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you again for doing all this.”

“A-ah, truly, I’ve done hardly anything—” Moonjumper starts, shaking their head, but the woman clicks her tongue at them in disapproval.

“That’s not true at all and you ought to _know_ that, dear. You brought me back my sister, for one thing, and Flo has told me a little about what you’ve been doing for all of the dead of Subcon.”

The Horizon within them twists in guilt, because it’s really Snatcher who has made this all possible. They’re merely a tool, and one that did damage to Snatcher as well. “It’s really not _me,_ Cecile—”

“But it _is_ ,” she says firmly. “Florence said she agreed to be bound because of the changes _you_ were making. And no one _made_ you bring her here, you made the connection yourself and brought her back into my life.” She frowns, looking intently into Moonjumper’s eyes, which happen to be stinging right now; they blink a few times to relieve it, to no avail. “You often seem to doubt yourself, Moonjumper, and I’m too old and have been through too much doubt myself to stand by and let that happen. You’re a good person, and you’ve _done_ a lot of good, too. I hope you know that.”

“O-oh,” Moonjumper manages to choke out. The world is blurry, suddenly. Cecile smiles and passes them a handkerchief.

It takes them a minute or two to get themself back under control. Cecile waits patiently through their sniffling and the sounds of Florence’s ranting about soil acidity from the other room. “I’m — I’m very glad to help,” they finally say. “I just wish I could do more.”

“Worry less,” she advises. “We appreciate everything you’ve already done, and we’d both be glad to know you even if you hadn’t been so very helpful. I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself as well, dear?”

“I’m… trying,” they admit, and it’s been difficult but they _are._ Even if they still feel terrible over the trouble they’ve caused Snatcher, Florence’s bullying and the presence of Tim, Thor, and Youngster have been good for them. These days they feel less like a burden to those around them. “Have you? With Florence’s return, I worry—”

“Worry _less_ ,” Cecile says again, but her smile turns a little sad. “It’s been odd. We have to go slow so she isn’t overwhelmed with memories again. And I remember her being so wise, but now she seems so young…” She sighs, then flaps a hand between them with a dismissive air. “But I’m managing. Even if it’s been difficult, and even if our relationship isn’t what I imagined it would be when I was fifteen, I’m grateful to have her in my life at all.”

“Right,” Moonjumper says quietly. Fifty years can see a lot of change.

“Anyways, I don’t mean to keep you,” Cecile says, and pulls them into a brief, unexpected hug. They freeze; although their own mother hadn’t been nearly as tall as this woman, they feel suddenly like Luka from a long time ago. “Enjoy your meeting, dear.”

A little shakily, Moonjumper thanks her, waves, and closes the door behind them with a neat little _snk_. They stare down at the bouquet in their hands.

_Deep breaths, kid._

Then they set off. Most of Probonough is shut down on a Sunday so they hardly meet anyone on the way to the statehouse, and there are no guards to delay them as they teleport past the wrought iron gates behind the building. They walk on a little longer before coming to their destination.

They check the sun — there’s still an hour before they’re expected at the Time’s End — and glance around one last time to verify that they are alone. Then they untie their mask, sit on top of the empty plot labeled with their old name, and lay the bouquet between their parents’ graves. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. How are you two? My week has been pretty normal — still no sign Snatcher, of course — but you’ll appreciate what one of the Subconites did the other day…”

***

It always seems rude to teleport directly into the Time’s End Bookstore, so it is while Moonjumper is on its stoop, fumbling with their summoned copy of the key, that they realize that they’re _humming._ It’s just a simple tune, light and cheery, and for a moment they’re surprised — _when was the last time I hummed anything? It must have been months before Vanessa killed me, she never particularly liked me to waste time with music_ — but it feels _nice,_ if unexpected, so Moonjumper lets the melody resolve itself before calling out into the closed store, the brightness of the song inflecting their voice.

“Good eeeeevening! Sorry I’m late, I lost track of time,” they shout, pulling a few books from the shelves as they go. “I hope you didn’t wait for me; I know I have the nice teapot, but really, Tim’s works just as well—”

The beaded curtain to the backroom clacks merrily as they shoulder through, arms full of books on magic that they suspect will be of use for today’s planned topic, when they notice that there’s an extra figure at the table today. They blink.

Tim looks amused. The Youngster looks disgruntled. Thor looks a little nervous, but mostly warm and happy. The red thread wrapped around his core is shorter today, bowing slightly between him and the fourth figure to whom its other end is attached.

“Hello,” says the fire spirit sitting with easy elegance at the worn old table. “You must be Moonjumper. Thor has told me so much about you.”

“...Hi there,” Moonjumper squeaks. Tim silently pulls out their chair for them; they nearly collapse into it, staring. Fire spirits are notoriously fickle and extremely dangerous. Moonjumper never expected to meet one even in their life as a royal — though as a piece of the Horizon they once spent some time admiring them — yet here one is in the crammed backroom in which they have spent so much of their time.

“MJ, mate, this is the fire spirit whose magic I’ve been borrowing,” Thor says, exchanging a genuinely affectionate smile with the being made almost entirely of magic beside him. “You can call her the Fire Spirit, if you like.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she says, and extends a burning paw to them.

“Aw, don’t,” Thor says weakly, and Youngster winces clearly beneath his facial hair. Moonjumper can feel the heat coming off of her from across the table, and though she has no visible eyes they can sense her watching them for what they’ll do.

It would be foolish for any human to shake her hand.

Like they’re watching from the outside, Moonjumper sets the books on the table and stands, taking her paw. It is hot in their grip, but not much hotter than Snatcher. They give it a firm shake, the way they learned in law school, and she delicately lays another paw atop their hand. The heat increases — but it occurs to Moonjumper that without the added kick of magic her fire is only carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and water vapor. They may not yet know how to use the Horizon against magic, but they know how to use it against matter.

So, thinking of law school exams and battle strategies, they dematerialize the fire as she creates it and lay their other hand atop hers in a returned challenge. Her smile sharpens, the sparks of her form spitting, and the heat increases as she summons a third and fourth arm of flame. Youngster has stood up from the table in alarm, Thor is protesting, and even Tim looks a little worried, but Moonjumper hardly notices for the spirit’s predatory smile. 

It’s the kind of smile that would terrify any normal human.

But Moonjumper isn’t just Luka — they’re the Horizon, too. So they return her smile with a toothy one of their own as their magic warps and twists reality around them. “Fire Spirit, the pleasure is all mine.”

And just like that, it’s over.

“Good to know you, starlight,” she says smoothly, and lowers herself back into her seat like nothing has happened. The heat of the room dissipates at once, til it’s just barely warmer than usual. “May I pour you some tea?”

“Please,” Moonjumper says easily, surprised at how calm they feel. They sit as their magic flits around them in a triumphant whirl that they don’t even think to squash down. _Not bad for your first time meeting another being made of magic, kid._ The compliment from the voice in their head is warm; they press a hand to their face, hoping their pride isn’t too obvious.

“Oh _gods_ I forgot you were terrifying,” Youngster mutters, ashen-faced. Moonjumper aims an apologetic smile at the young man; he shudders and returns gingerly to his seat.

“You would have made a good fire spirit,” the Fire Spirit says, passing them a cup of tea with the only two arms she has.

“Thank you,” they say, though they can’t imagine their drive to _exist_ would mesh very well with a fire spirit’s drive to _die._ They can just imagine themself as a fox-shaped flame, nervously holding an umbrella as they peer out into the rain. “So what brings you to the Time’s End today, Fire Spirit?”

“Death,” she says brightly.

“Yeah,” says Thor, wiping away a bead of sweat from his brow with a wry smile. “We were talking the other day, and the Fire Spirit feels it’s about time she burns out. Wanted to get the chance to talk with all of you before we set the fire tonight.”

“Ah,” says Moonjumper, the Horizon sinking in their chest. They’ve only just met their first fellow magical being, and soon she’ll be smoke and memory. “I’m sorry to hear you’ll be leaving, but I suppose I am happy for you as well.”

“Thank you,” she says warmly. “I would have burned up many months ago, but Thor and his plans for the future were… _interesting_ enough for me to stay.” She tilts her head minutely at Thor, whose face reddens in a way unrelated to the ambient temperature. “He has been _very_ convincing.”

“Ooh,” says Tim.

“Ah,” says Moonjumper, glancing between them.

“What?” says Youngster. “Why are we ‘oooh’ing? What did I miss?”

Thor pulls his hat off to scrub at his hair (incidentally obscuring his blushing face) and clears his throat. “She means my research into harnessing magic for the non-magical,” he says weakly.

“That too,” the Fire Spirit agrees, flashing her teeth.

The bright red tips of Thor’s ears are visible even as he buries his face in his arms. The Fire Spirit delicately plucks the hat from his hand and sets it between her pointed ears, clearly pleased. Moonjumper glances at Tim, who offers them the tiniest hint of a smirk before covering it with a sip of tea.

Youngster narrows his eyes at the whole of the table. “I hate magic,” he announces. “I don’t understand the lot of you.”

“ _You’re_ magic,” says Thor, muffled.

“Not by choice,” he grunts, and jabs a thumb in Moonjumper’s direction. “It’s that one’s fault.”

“I _am_ sorry,” they say for what is likely the hundredth time, although they know by now that there’s no real animosity behind his grumbling. Still, every time they remember their role in Youngster’s acquisition of magic, the Horizon within them twists with guilt. “I’m still looking into how to untangle my thread from yours — I intend to remove your magic as soon as I figure out how.”

“S’fine,” he mutters, scowling a little as he juggles a few sparks between the fingers of one hand. “S’not aliens, but it’s still kinda cool.”

“You gave him magic?” the Fire Spirit asks, leaning forward in interest. “But you are not tied to him. How did you do it?”

Behind his teacup, Tim grins. 

The plan this evening had been to discuss how beliefs about magic affect the manifestation of magic itself, but the presence of the Fire Spirit sends them in a completely different direction. Though Moonjumper is the only one among them to have done in-depth research on the connection between souls and magic, the rest of the table can hold their own: Thor and the Fire Spirit speak to their mutual experience of lending and borrowing from each other, as well as their personal backgrounds in the field; Youngster, for all his grumbling about magic itself, has clearly been reading everything he can get his hands on and asks clarifying questions that send their theorizing in interesting new directions; and for the most part Tim dedicatedly plays the part of dutiful host, except when he makes the odd comment that turns out to be _vitally_ incisive.

By the time the Fire Spirit graciously heats up their fifth pot of tea (decaf, as quietly decided by Tim several hours ago), the sky has gone dark and Tim offers the backyard of the Time’s End for the bonfire. Youngster, Thor, and the Fire Spirit troop outside under the stars as Moonjumper helps Tim collect a few lanterns.

“I didn’t know there was room in the city for a backyard,” Moonjumper comments idly as they attempt not to spill any oil from the filled lamps. Probably they should have just dematerialized their armful and rematerialized them outside, but they’re so close to the door now that they elect to tough it out.

“There _isn’t_ room for a backyard,” Tim says with a wink, his eyebrows waggling (dark grey today — his age often fluctuates between meetings, but this is nearly as young as they’ve ever seen him). Moonjumper’s brow furrows and they open their mouth to ask what he means, but then they cross the threshold out of the building.

The backyard is fairly small, just large enough for a scraggly-looking garden, a grassy hill, and a fire pit. It’s bound on all four sides by wooden walls that come from trees not native to this planet. When Moonjumper looks up to the night sky, the stars don’t match anything in the skies they grew up with, nor anything that would be possible from their position in this solar system. More than that, though, is the fact that this whole place is made from a half of _pure Horizon_ in a way that is nearly impossible in nature: it’s been _snipped_ from wherever it was in reality and tied on here.

It feels _bizarre_ ; it feels _familiar_. It feels like a Horizon Piece, but the half of it that is Space. Then where’s the half of it that’s—?

Tim shouts, “BOO!” and Moonjumper yelps, instinctually dematerializing the lamps they had forgotten they were holding. Tim laughs brightly, setting his own lamps down on a worn-looking bench. “You were going to drop them. Had to do something, eh?” 

“ _Tim_ ,” Moonjumper breathes, the Horizon within them buzzing in both alarm at their recent scare and awe at the nature of their surroundings. The little backyard seems so _normal,_ but its very existence isn’t supposed to be possible. “How did this—?”

“Ah ah ah,” Tim says, wagging his finger. “You can’t get distracted now! You're closer than ever before to making a breakthrough about sourcing souls for your rude friend, aren’t you?”

Moonjumper shuts their mouth with a click. This impossible fold of the fabric of space has them burning with curiosity, but the only reason they’re a part of this group in the first place is because they promised Snatcher that they would replace the soul they returned to Youngster. The presence of a magical being with experience in tying together non-magical souls with her own is their best lead so far.

Thor has lit the bonfire. The Fire Spirit stands in front of it, languidly stretching, as Thor hurries by to grab his copies of the best books Tim sells. They’re running out of time.

“One day, we are _going_ to have a conversation about all of this,” Moonjumper warns Tim as they rematerialize the lanterns.

“I know,” he says, blue eyes twinkling. “My sisters already have it written into my schedule.”

“ _One day_ ,” Moonjumper swears, and leaves the lamps for Tim to deal with.

The Fire Spirit sways loosely from side to side as she watches the fire. Moonjumper steps up beside her, glancing at her out of the corner of their eye. “You had a question, starlight?” she asks.

“Yes,” Moonjumper says, clasping their hands together to steady their nerve. “Connecting yourself and Thor — why did you do it? Isn’t it dangerous for both of you?”

“It is,” she agrees. “But only as much as any other relationship might be. He could pull all the magic from my core, yes, and I might pull from him his very soul. But that’s not what we Agreed on; even if it were, we trust the other to be careful with the power we have given them.”

“Others have done what we have in the past,” Thor says, coming up on Moonjumper’s other side, his arms full of books. “The difference is that we trusted each other, and came to an Agreement with that in mind.”

“How did you even know it could be done?” Moonjumper asks, looking between the human on one side and the magical being on their other. The cord of magic that connects them hangs comfortably between them, so close Moonjumper could reach out and touch it.

“Well, I know you prefer modern research,” Thor says, a little sheepishly, “but actually I found out about it in some of the oldest books I could find. Turns out even non-magical folks can connect themselves to a magical being, but back then only magic-users would form Agreements with powerful beings to heighten their own power. They would have been called _warlocks_.”

Moonjumper jerks their head around to stare at him.

“And I am a magical being,” says the Fire Spirit, and Moonjumper’s gaze snaps to her. “I simply trusted my instincts, and trusted Thor.”

A warlock — an Agreement — human research and magical instincts — trust — Moonjumper’s own ability to cut and tie the threads of soul, magic, and reality. The bonfire before them burns bright, flickering with heat and light.

An idea sparks. It’s barely there, barely caught, and Moonjumper recognizes they will have to feed it very carefully and conscientiously with ideas both human and magical to get it to properly catch light… but it’s something. It’s more than they’ve had for Snatcher in a long while.

“Thank you,” Moonjumper manages to say.

“Good luck, starlight,” the Fire Spirit says, and Moonjumper steps back to let her and Thor begin the dance.

Tim comes up beside them to hand off a mug of tea; Moonjumper warms their hands against it, thinking. Together they watch as Thor pulls away from the Fire Spirit to begin tossing books into the fire, books he’s obsessively read and notated over the past few months to find the very best of the best for the magical being to whom he’s tied.

“Well?” Tim murmurs.

“I might have something,” Moonjumper says. “Time will tell.”

Youngster brings over some popcorn and the three watch the rest of the dance in silence. Moonjumper is the only one of them that can see magic, so only they see when the Fire Spirit unravels the thread between her and Thor in their final embrace, leaving the man as unmagical as Luka once was.

Then, with an elegant spin, the Fire Spirit pirouettes into the fire and is gone.

They let Thor take as long as he needs alone by the fire. Eventually the man wipes his face, pulls his cap back on, and ambles over to them with his hands in his pockets. “I know it’s almost midnight, but any chance of you all sticking around for a drink or something?” he says, voice thick.

 _Nearly midnight_ — the Horizon within Moonjumper spikes in alarm. They’ve never stayed away from Subcon for this long before. What if Snatcher needed them for something and couldn’t get a hold of them? What if Snatcher has been waiting for them, expecting them back before midnight? What if—?

 _It’s been months, kid,_ says a voice in Moonjumper’s head. _He hasn’t shown any interest in seeing you in_ months. _These people are with you right here, right now._

The reality-warping magic around them calms down. Moonjumper looks between Tim, offering drink options; Thor, face still wet with tears; and Youngster, gruffly patting the older man on the back.

_Snatcher can wait._

“How about it, MJ?” Tim asks. “Wine, beer, water?”

“Just water, please,” they say, smiling warmly at their friends. “Alcohol doesn’t affect me because my body is, ah. Dead.”

Softly, Tim smacks a hand to his face. Youngster grunts in surprise. Thor, his grief already so close to the surface, turns shiny eyes on Moonjumper and they abruptly realize that they’ve just said something _totally_ socially inappropriate. “‘Jumper, we’re so sorry, we didn’t know—”

“It’s alright!” they say hastily, flapping a blue hand at the expressions of pity Thor and Youngster are sending their way. “It’s really alright, it’s no big deal, I’ve already come to terms with it and I like water just as well—”

“I get it,” Tim says loudly, drawing the attention of everyone in the impossible backyard. “I can’t have alcohol either; my alien body processes it too quickly.”

There’s silence for a moment.

“Your _what,_ ” says Thor, and Moonjumper blinks — they’ve known, on some level, that Tim was an alien from their very first meeting, but they’ve never really thought about it before. Beneath his forceful cheer, Tim looks a little resigned. Why on earth would he bring that up now—?

“You’re an _ALIEN_ ?!” Youngster shrieks, thus tabling the possibility of any awkward conversations about Moonjumper’s undead status for the night. “I have _so many questions_ —”

As Tim fields an atypically animated Youngster's bizarre questions with reluctant obedience, Moonjumper feels something bubble up within them for the first time since their visit to Vanessa’s manor. They almost don’t recognize it, it’s been so long — but under the stars, surrounded by their friends, Moonjumper laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: minor (!) self-loathing; minor pain management; memory issues; reference to death of family members; introduction and canon-typical death of a fire spirit; reference to alcohol.
> 
> 1\. wrt last chapter: i have v clear memories of ANGR!!!!! when books would end chapters on cliffhangers and then open the next bit by Telling us what happened instead of Showing but as much as i'd like to show u guys every second of this poor loser's unlife, we have SO MUCH to get through (WHINES) and i was rly hoping to finish act2 by the end of august (prognosis isn't great but maybe??)  
> 2\. we met cecile as a plot device way back in ch6 to explain the story of Subcon's Fall (or rather Winter eyyy). i had no plans for her to return, but the chance to talk w mj about death, siblings, and love coming back to u in unexpected ways in the same chapter containing the Fire Spirit was too good to pass up. her name is literally just "how close can i get to just calling her Sister." also, while cissy and flo don't Actually suspect anything, they've probably jokingly had a "THE BUTTS MATCH" type conversation about poor old dead prince luka and their new friend mj >:3  
> 3\. in his introduction i innocently gave tim the verbal tic of ending sentences w "eh?" which over time has evolved into my thinking of him pronouncing about as "aboot" and wearing a lot of flannel lol. poor dude is being a good host by providing tea to his guests when tbh he'd prefer tim hortons coffee D: anyways someone get me out of this Hell Brain  
> 4\. today's fire spirit is directly based off of concept artist shane frost's work, particularly [this piece](https://shane-frost.tumblr.com/post/190726691529). also if u like fire spirits and/or the conductor then i highly recommend modmad's ahit comic [Nitrate Burn](https://modmad.tumblr.com/post/612937456686448640/oh-boy-this-was-not-something-i-planned-to-make)! it's SO GOOD  
> 5\. BONUS: [HERE's](https://cartoonsaint.tumblr.com/post/625298350492844032/try-not-to-use-the-f-word-okay) a little fic i wrote about 'the coffee shop au' (i'm sure i'm getting the location of those quotes wrong) bc MAN do i like to talk about luka (obvi, given that OtM is essentially me talking about him TWICE ha! ...we have fun here)  
> 6\. up next: solutions and the return of our favorite soul-stealing amnesiac ghost >:D
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY: MJ has friends ;-; and a potential new research topic regarding sourcing souls for Snatcher...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably I should have split this into two chapters but I am stupid and stubborn and now it is Too Late so! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> See end notes for content warnings.

It takes a few weeks for Moonjumper’s tiny spark of an idea to properly catch flame. In the meantime, they fulfill a few contracts, work with the Subconites to send off several more unbound ghosts, and let Florence continue testing treatments for the pain that comes from their missing legs. Once a week they leave Subcon to drop Florence off at her sister’s, visit their parents’ graves, and discuss magic at the Time’s End. Besides the contracts, they never hear a word from Snatcher; as time goes on, they’re determined to let that fact bother them less and less.

It is at Nerd Club one afternoon that they finally have a breakthrough regarding souls, warlocks, and their own threads.

“If you’re dead,” Youngster says, narrowing his eyes over the table, “why do you eat?”

“That’s actually something I’m curious about as well, mate,” Thor says apologetically. Tim pours the last of the tea into his cup and stands up to make another pot. “You don’t have to tell us if it’s too personal, though.”

Moonjumper finishes chewing, swallows, and sets down the sandwich on their plate, thinking. “Well,” they say, “I don’t  _ need  _ to eat. But I enjoy it, and my magic breaks down the components of whatever I put in my body and stores it for later use. I think I could even put things back together if I tried hard enough.”

“You could use the materials later?” Thor asks, leaning forward, at the same time Youngster says, “So you could eat  _ anything _ .”

“Yes,” Moonjumper replies to both questions.

Thor says, “Could you use those materials for something else? Could you make something new?”

Youngster says, “I dare you to eat this teabag.”

“I —  _ what _ ,” says Moonjumper, staring at the younger man, who leans back and crosses his arms.

“Figures you’d be too much of a cowardly fancy-pants to do it,” he grunts, examining his nails.

“Or, instead of that, maybe we could talk about using magic to create things?” Thor interjects hopefully, but Youngster is surreptitiously watching Moonjumper for what they’ll do, his chin tilted in challenge.

Moonjumper died in their mid-twenties. They grew up in a royal household, knowing what was expected of them and obeying every rule. Even in university they never slacked off or acted childishly — between their studies and all the time they devoted to Vanessa, there simply wasn’t time. Even if they could ever have thought to eat a cloth teabag while alive, they never would have had the guts to do so in polite company (nor whatever kind of company this is).

“Aw,  _ don’t _ ,” Thor groans, but Moonjumper fishes the used teabag out of the empty teapot, puts it in their mouth, and starts to chew while maintaining eye contact with a smirking Youngster.

It’s not pleasant. The cloth bag doesn’t tear easily, so Moonjumper needs to grind their teeth together to get it to rip, and then the damp tea leaves coat their mouth in a way that makes them glad they don’t need to breathe. Still chewing, they tilt their head at Youngster in returned challenge:  _ I’ve accepted your dare. What next? _

“What the  _ peck  _ did I just walk into,” says Tim as he reenters with a fresh kettle, which is such absurd phrasing that Moonjumper snorts mid-chew — thus shooting half-chewed tea leaves through their nose

“Eugh!” Youngster says, delighted, and Thor barks a startled laugh before burying his face in his arms, shoulders shaking with mirth. Moonjumper coughs through tea leaves and their own laughter, pressing a napkin to their mouth, as Tim shakes his head at them all and calmly pours a fresh pot of tea.

It takes Moonjumper a full minute to get enough of their sense back to finish chewing, swallow, and concentrate through Youngster and Thor still losing their minds a little bit across the table.

Using the Horizon in this way is new to them and increases their headache a little bit, but it’s worth the small sense of pride as Moonjumper opens their hand and their flitting magic coalesces into the form of that self-same teabag, perfect and whole.

“Oh, woah,” says Youngster, choking off his laughter to gape at Moonjumper. Tim sips his tea, unimpressed, but Thor  _ gasps  _ and practically launches himself across the table to grab Moonjumper’s wrist, steadying it and staring at the intact teabag.

“‘Jumper,” he says, “how did you—?”

“Magic,” they say, perhaps a little more smugly than necessary. Tim snorts.

“Could you do it again? Could you combine it with something  _ new _ ?” Thor demands, eyes bright. “How does it  _ work _ ??”

Moonjumper discards the teabag, grinning — this kind of eagerness to  _ know _ always reminds them of their first moments of existence as a Horizon Piece, a comparison which lately makes them feel warm and fond. “It’s fairly simple, really,” they say, summoning a yarn-thick thread of magic. “Look — you see how a string can be unraveled?” They twist the end of their red magic until its threads begin to loosen; Thor watches, rapt. “My magic can unravel physical items from reality, hold them in a sort of folded non-space specific to me, then recreate them later.” They twist the frayed ends of their magic back together until it looks as though it’d never been damaged in the first place. “You see?”

“That's  _ incredible _ ,” Thor breathes. “There’s so many potential applications for an ability like that. Have you always been able to do it? Do you think you could combine something physical  _ with  _ your magic?”

“Maybe,” Moonjumper says slowly, eyes still on the red cord in their hand. Thor says something else but they hardly notice for the thought that’s just flared to life in their mind, part realization combined with a memory of something they once read. Their brow furrows and they carefully pinch their magic between pale blue fingers, gently twisting it apart again.

“MJ?” Tim asks. They glance up, blinking owlishly, to find their friends looking at them, varyingly concerned and bemused. “You with us?”

“Right,” Moonjumper says. “Right. Sorry, just — hang on a minute, please.”

The group exchange glances as Moonjumper stands and pulls aside the beaded curtain, heading into the bookshop proper. They walk down the aisles, Horizon buzzing loudly in their chest, flexing their fingers against the head of their cane. Surely Tim still has a copy…

Finally, they find what they’re looking for and pull down a slim volume with frayed edges. The treatise is old, its contents human-biased and already outdated even when it was published, and though Tim recommended it to them months ago they never actually finished reading it.

_ The Meaning of Magic _ , its embossed title importantly states. They flip to the introduction.

_ Magic is an aspect of the soul _ , it reads. _ In its purest form it is a vivid, shocking red, but pure magic is virtually unheard of in the uncorrupted magic user… brave martyrs have even sacrificed their very souls in search of further knowledge, signing their essence away to more magical beings in the hopes of learning all they can… _

Their own magic humming rapidly, Moonjumper sinks into one of the plush armchairs and begins to read.

They read the book cover to cover, and then they read it again. At some point, Tim brings them a lamp; a few times, he refills it. When Moonjumper searches the shelves for books referenced in  _ The Meaning of Magic  _ they find every single one in stock, as well as every book those books mention. They read them all, fiddling with the threads of their own magic, considering and discarding theory after theory.

The Horizon is all things and thus knows all things. Moonjumper is prevented from using it to its full potential by the body that anchors them to reality, but the Horizon can still verify theories if Moonjumper is willing to accept the headache. They do, of course, burning through ideas as they search for a method that will do what they need it to, fueled by their readings and their own experiences since becoming Moonjumper so many months ago.

Naturally, as time goes on and they continue using the Horizon as much as they can, their headache worsens. They cut back on how much pain they’re numbing, gritting their teeth through it to stay focused. A few times Tim sits next to them, quietly absorbing their pain, although by all accounts that’s not something he should know to do — Moonjumper means to ask, and to thank him, but they’re distracted by an unexpected passage about corrupted magic and ghosts and by their own burning drive to  _ know _ , to  _ understand  _ and find the solution to the puzzle that’s been troubling them for months now.

Finally, Moonjumper closes the last of the books. They call on their magic to stand, wincing through the headache as they mentally double-check their conclusions against what the Horizon has confirmed. They reshelve the book and stand there for a moment, buzzing with flitting energy, because there’s nothing left that they need to read.

“I’ve got it,” they whisper in disbelief.

Saying it out loud should make it feel more real, but they can’t help remembering that the last time they thought they had Snatcher’s soul problem figured out they had  _ royally  _ screwed it up. So: 

“Testing,” they murmur, and spin around towards the backroom. The beaded curtain clacks together as they brush it aside, revealing Tim and the rest of the Nerd Club. Youngster and Thor both look startled.

“Good, you’re still here,” Moonjumper says, relieved.

“ _ ‘Still _ here?’ Wait — have you been reading this  _ whole time _ ?” Youngster demands, bushy eyebrows furrowing as he sets his cup down.

“What? Yes,” Moonjumper says, shaking their head against the distraction of a new conversation. “Look — Thor, you’re the only one among us who doesn’t have magic right now. Would you be willing to help me test a theory by becoming a warlock again?”

Thor frowns and tips his hat back to scrub at his hair. “Maybe. What’s your theory?”

Moonjumper tells him. Youngster pales; Tim softly says “oooh,” and starts fiddling with one of his bracelets; Thor’s eyebrows raise and lower and raise again. When they finish explaining, Thor is silent for a time. Moonjumper wraps a chain around their wrist, tugging nervously.

“I’ll do it,” Thor finally says, and Moonjumper could  _ collapse  _ in relief, but Thor isn’t finished. “ _ If  _ you agree to try combining magic with non-magical objects for me. Seriously, ‘Jumper, that could be the key to all of my work — it could do incredible things for non-magical folks everywhere.”

They’re not certain if they can actually do that and are unwilling to risk accessing the Horizon through their headache right now to check, so they simply agree — they can figure it out later,  _ this  _ is too important right now — and extend a hand to their friend. “Alright, Thor. Do you Agree to our terms?”

The moment they say those words, the world around them _changes_ — or rather, Moonjumper’s _view_ of the world changes. The cluttered backroom of the Time’s End, the fragrant steam rising from a fresh pot of tea, the bodies of the men who have become their friends — none of those things are nearly so important as the bright blue soul that is suddenly visible to Moonjumper, waiting there for the taking, protected from them by only a few words and an Agreement.

They’re not sure what exactly Thor says, but he clasps their hand in a firm shake as the Agreement takes hold. Moonjumper can’t help the toothy grin that spreads over their face nor the loud laugh that spills from their lips. “Then the deal has been sealed,” they say, and the man’s hand  _ jerks  _ in theirs as they reach out and  _ take _ .

The Agreement specifies that they take only one strand of this soul, but the Horizon and Luka both know how to twist a contract-Agreement to its breaking point, and part of Luka is still so scared that he’ll be taken again by Vanessa or something like her. He could warp the Agreement, take the  _ whole  _ soul, have the power necessary to protect himself and make sure  _ nothing could  _ **_ever hurt him again —_ **

Moonjumper focuses through the memories of who they once were to remember who they are  _ now _ : someone between human and Horizon, someone who cares about their friends, someone who is  _ in control. _

So, carefully, Moonjumper pulls a thread from Thor’s soul and unravels its end. They take one of their own threads, similarly frayed, and twine the two ends together until they resemble one string — and then add in a wide loop of their own magic with a thick, sturdy knot. Holding a breath they don’t need, they pull their hands away, watching.

Thor must attempt some magic in that moment. He draws it from the loop of Moonjumper’s magic, up to the knot but not beyond; meanwhile, Moonjumper still has access to the man’s soul, can feel the power of it in their core (along with the temptation to  _ pull _ , to have the whole thing for themself, to use its power and  _ never be hurt again _ —).

Moonjumper lets out a long breath and sinks into the nearest chair, blinking away the strange change to their vision until the Time’s End looks like the Time’s End again. Their magic twirls around them in perfect, right-angled squares.

Youngster has backed away, putting a fascinated-looking Tim between them, and Thor lets his new magic fall in sand-like granules from his hand, examining it critically. Rather than the magic-red of typical warlock Agreements, the thread between him and Moonjumper is violet — except for the stark red of that extra loop. “Well, it worked on my end,” Thor says. “‘Jumper?”

“It worked,” they say. Their headache has lightened considerably, but now they simply feel  _ exhausted _ . “I’ve got access to your soul without you pulling directly from my core, and you’ll be able to use that loop of my magic indefinitely — as long as you let it recharge in between.” They lower their head into their hands, rubbing their wet eyes through their mask. It feels like they’ve been working on this for  _ so long _ ; by all rights they should be elated, but mostly they just want to take a nap. “To clarify: you really are alright with me giving this part of your soul to my friend Snatcher?”

“I  _ don’t  _ like that guy,” Youngster interjects, still hidden behind Tim and watching Moonjumper warily. They would feel worse about that if they were less tired.

“I’m alright with it,” Thor says. “Uh. Are  _ you  _ alright, Moonjumper?”

“Yes,” they lie, smiling weakly. “Just…  _ really  _ tired now. I feel like I could sleep for a year.”

Tim chuckles nervously, breaking his silence. “Don’t do that,” he says. “We’d miss you.”

“Ha,” Moonjumper says, muffled by their fingers. They can just imagine the bed in the stone cabin, how nice it would be to take their mask off and sleep for a while. They  _ really  _ don’t think they can handle the rest of Nerd Club today. “Um. Thor, I know I promised to help you with your magical objects project, but would you mind terribly if today I…?”

“Nah, mate, go home,” he says, fixing his cap back on his head and aiming a smile at them. “Get some rest and we’ll see you next week, yeah?  _ Don’t  _ sleep for a year.”

“Thank you,” Moonjumper says, raising their head and blinking blearily at their friends. “Really, I cannot thank all of you enough. This — working with all of you — I don’t know how to express my gratitude—”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” Youngster says gruffly. His face looks a little pink and he’s avoiding eye contact, but he looks considerably less frightened than he did a few moments ago. “We all have emotions. Go home, MJ.”

Tim snorts and Thor shakes his head in exasperation, but Moonjumper smiles at him. “I’ll say no more, then. See you next week,” they say, and vanish from the Time’s End.

They land in Subcon in the same spot as they used to meet Snatcher when they were still sending off the town’s ghosts together. There’s still a trap set up, a flattened burlap sack hidden artfully by dead leaves, and Moonjumper manages to give it a tired smirk.

“No legs to trip your wires. Ha,” they murmur, and with a swing of their strings take an exhausted step forward. For all that they no longer need it, their cane is a comfort, so by unthinking habit Moonjumper brings it forwards as well —

And thus trips the wire to Snatcher’s trap.

With a  _ thwip _ , the burlap sack knocks their balance out from under them and swallows them up, unceremoniously yanking Moonjumper into the sky. They don’t even have the energy to yelp — they merely bounce there for a long moment, blinking uncomprehendingly at the dense weave of the burlap surrounding them.

“... _ what _ ,” they groan, long and exhausted. How can this kind of thing  _ possibly  _ keep happening to them.

And then the Horizon in their chest  _ spikes _ because from outside their sack prison comes a familiar, echoing,  _ ghostly  _ voice.

“Ha,” says Snatcher. “Hahaha… Fool.”

This  _ cannot  _ be happening.

_ Wow, I do  _ not  _ sound invested in this,  _ says the voice in Moonjumper’s head that resembles Snatcher, sounding almost impressed with his counterpart’s lack of energy. Moonjumper, now wide awake, squashes down on it and holds their breath.

“You’ve stepped into my forest,” the real Snatcher drones on. “And now you must pay the price.”

They haven’t seen Snatcher in  _ months,  _ and here he is now, separated from them by only some measley fabric and his own unawareness of who he’s speaking to. What should they do?  _ What should they do?? _

An apathetic sigh. “Your soul belongs to me, I guess.”

The Horizon buzzes frantically within them. Any second now, Snatcher’s going to tear open the trap and attempt to rip their soul out — which is fine, they already know it won’t work, but he’s been avoiding them for months and Moonjumper doesn’t blame him and oh, gods, this is going to be  _ so awkward _ and Moonjumper is already  _ so tired. _

_ I guess you  _ could _ just teleport out of here?  _ says their internal Snatcher doubtfully. 

That’s  _ perfect! _ Just as the vague shadow semi-visible through the fabric lifts a claw to strike, Moonjumper squeezes their eyes shut and disappears from the trap. Their strings catch them as they land directly beneath their previous position and they should go _ now  _ but they can’t stop themself from looking up, Horizon abuzz within them, searching for their old friend.

Snatcher, in his snake-like shape and still much smaller than they’re accustomed to, is peering inside the now-empty trap. “... _ what _ ,” they hear him mutter, before he pulls his head out and looks down.

His glowing yellow eyes widen when they meet Moonjumper’s red ones. For a frozen moment, Moonjumper can’t tear their gaze away from him — even their magic stills, the whole forest silent for a time that feels to Moonjumper like it might last an eternity.

They’re reminded, suddenly, of how it felt to see Vanessa in the manor.

“Moonjumper?” Snatcher finally says, as though he’s uncertain, and Moonjumper realizes that  _ they cannot do this. _

“Sorry!” they squeak, then turn sharply on a non-existent heel and speed-walk away.

_ Wait, kid, what are you doing?! _ They make an effort to ignore the internal voice as they hold their back tight and straight and hurry away from Snatcher.  _ You’ve been hoping to talk to him for  _ months!

_He doesn’t want to speak to me,_ they tell themself. _He’s been avoiding_ _me for months,_ obviously _he doesn’t want to speak to me._

“Hey — hey!! Wait!”

_ Are you sure about that,  _ drawls their internal voice and they are  _ not prepared for this. _ What could Snatcher possibly want from them now, after so long apart? They speed up, shoulders hunching.

“Wait!! Kid, I’m asking you nicely,  _ wait— _ !”

There’s a frustrated growl behind them — not within reach but  _ too close! _ — and Moonjumper glances back over their shoulder to see Snatcher, fangs gritted, gaining pace like a shot arrow. Moonjumper mentally curses and increases their pace to what is essentially a sprint.

“ _Moonjumper!!_ ” Snatcher roars, and Moonjumper tosses out any thought of social etiquette — with a sharp mental tug of their strings they nearly _fly_ at speeds no human could reach, away away _away_ — but Snatcher isn’t human either and they can hear him behind them, _what do they do —_

_ Have you forgotten that you can TELEPORT,  _ demands the voice in their head, and Moonjumper misses a step (or a string?) and stumbles because they are  _ such  _ a fool — they call on the Horizon —

And Snatcher barrels into them, knocking them head over heels to the ground. Moonjumper loses their grip on their magic and the breath wheezes identically out of both them and Snatcher as they tumble to a stop.

For a moment, Moonjumper blinks dazedly up at the sky. It’s early afternoon, they note. Something about that seems odd.

Then Snatcher grabs their shoulders with two not-quite-hot paws and  _ shakes  _ them, face furious, and Moonjumper recalls how many magic-users he’s killed, how they brought Vanessa here who put him in this state, how easily he can shapeshift razor-sharp claws.  _ They don’t want to die. _

“Where have you _been_?” Snatcher thunders, which doesn’t make much sense but Moonjumper is _not_ going to die today — but they can’t use magic against him, it could really hurt him — but they have to _do something_ — their free hand curls into a fist — they’ve never fought someone before, but they always sort of wanted to, so—? “You think you can just _show up_ here like nothing’s wr—”

Moonjumper hauls back, prays, and punches Snatcher right in the face.

There’s not much power behind it, given that they’re on the ground and can’t fully follow through, and at the last second they panic a bit about where to aim and thus hit him weirdly between the eye and where his cheekbone would be. Snatcher rears back anyway, clutching his face, and Moonjumper gapes a little bit at what they’ve just done.

“ _ Ow _ !” Snatcher yelps, curling in on himself. He peeks his good eye open to glare at Moonjumper. “What the f—  _ why _ ?!”

“I — you were going to kill me,” they blurt. Up close, Snatcher is still roughly the size of a child, and the relatively few souls he has left ripple angrily across his dark form like the bristling fur of a cat. He does not, Moonjumper notes, look nearly so terrifying as he was when they first met. He mostly looks… small.

“I was _ not _ gonna kill you,” Snatcher snaps.

“Wh— yes, you  _ were _ ,” Moonjumper retorts, brow furrowing as they blink at the growling ghost. Their magic twists reality a little more harshly. “You were chasing me!”

“Only because _ you  _ were  _ running _ ,” Snatcher shouts, gesturing wildly with one paw while the other massages his eye. “Why did you run?!”

“Because  _ you  _ were  _ chasing me _ !” Moonjumper exclaims. “You avoid me for months and then come after me like that — what did you  _ think  _ was going to happen?!”

“I — I haven’t been  _ avoiding  _ you,” Snatcher says, suddenly looking everywhere but at Moonjumper. “I was just trying to stay out of the way. Obviously.”

“ _ What _ ?” Moonjumper says, staring at him. The ghost is scowling at the ground, his strange shoulders hunched up around his ears. “You — I haven’t seen you in  _ months _ , since I re— since I went to the manor and Vanessa came after me and it cost you all those souls. Snatcher, I’ve spent  _ hours  _ calling your name in the forest, I’ve asked every Subconite to reach out, I’ve even tried writing  _ you _ contracts, and you haven’t once spoken to me since that day! Not, ah, not that I blame you for not wanting to see me,” they hastily add. “I would certainly have been unhappy with me, too — but you can’t  _ possibly _ say you haven’t been avoiding me.”

Now Snatcher looks directly at Moonjumper, apparently bewildered and displeased about it. “But — I wasn’t unhappy with  _ you _ ,” he says. “What happened was  _ my  _ fault — I upset you by not giving that kid his soul back, and I made you think the queen was more important than you. Of course you felt like you had to do something! And then she, she—” He cuts himself off, wincing and clasping his paws together tightly. His gaze flickers uncomfortably to Moonjumper’s lack of legs and away again. “Well, she — did  _ that  _ to you. It was my choices that made you go in there; of course I wasn’t going to keep hanging around after  _ my  _ actions got you hurt.”

“But they  _ didn’t _ !” Moonjumper says, now bewildered themself. They scooch a little closer to Snatcher, who curls in on himself even farther. “You didn’t do anything —  _ I  _ made the choice to go into Vanessa’s manor,  _ I  _ put myself in harm’s way, and  _ I  _ did what I had to do to escape from Vanessa. I just feel bad that in doing so, I brought her into the forest and put  _ you  _ in danger.”

“But that wasn’t  _ your _ fault,” Snatcher says, glancing angrily up at them. “She’s not in her right mind — she only came after you because she thought you were Prince Luka.”

“Well, of  _ course _ she — she, ah…” Moonjumper blinks at Snatcher, whose brow furrows in return. “She…” Their magic stills in the air, tight and tense. “Snatcher, how do  _ you _ know that she, she thinks I’m…?”

“Oh,” Snatcher says. “Well, obviously, we fought.” The ghost gestures dismissively to his shrunken form. “Cost me a lot of souls, I’ll say that. Hardly remember anything from my life anymore. But eventually, I got her to calm down enough to talk to me.”

“You… spoke with her,” Moonjumper says. Reality warps sharply around them; Snatcher doesn’t notice, too busy frowning at his paws.

“Yeah. She… she’s gotten older,” he says quietly. “She’s confused — it’s not her fault, but. She‘s lost herself in a fairytale.” He sighs, balling his paws into fists. “I hadn’t realized how far gone she was. If I had, I never would have sent  _ anyone  _ in there, much less convinced  _ you  _ that you had to go in.”

He spoke with her. She told him they were Prince Luka… and he _doesn’t believe her_?

“I was a fool,” Snatcher continues, voice bitter. He lifts a lip in disgust at his own hands. “I thought I knew her — I thought I had everything under control here. Turns out I had barely anything: just vague memories of a life that doesn’t matter anymore, zero ghosts sent off, a couple of sorry traps. I’ve been practically useless to Subcon — _you’re_ the one who’s important.”

The Horizon buzzes within Moonjumper. Months ago, they realized that they needed to tell Snatcher that they were Luka — but they had decided against it because they were too scared of losing his friendship. Now they have the Nerd Club, Florence, Cecilia; they’ve become accustomed to a life without Snatcher. They know they can survive his absence. This, right now, is the perfect opportunity to come clean.

But Snatcher… Even disregarding his size, right now he seems so  _ small. _ He’s hunched over himself, scowling at his clenched paws, glowing eyes narrowed in vicious displeasure. And the way he’s talking about himself — it reminds Moonjumper so much of the way they used to think of themself, before Snatcher had finally started to convince them that they had value.

“So, yeah, I may have… freaked out a  _ little  _ when you disappeared. You’re  _ important  _ here, kid, alright?”

Snatcher doesn’t have anyone to fall back on. The Subconites, the unbound dwellers, Vanessa — he’s been providing for them with no support for himself for half a century. Moonjumper may not exactly _owe_ Snatcher for what he’s done for them, but they know what it’s like to be alone, to loathe oneself. They could help him. They _want_ to.

And Snatcher hates Luka… but he doesn’t hate Moonjumper.

“Kid?”

Moonjumper looks up. Snatcher has made himself even smaller, coiling in on himself; his glowing face shows clear worry, as well as an anxious vulnerability they’ve never seen on the ghost before. Like this, he almost seems young.

_ Who were you?  _ Moonjumper wonders.  _ What made you hate yourself so much? _

“To clarify,” Moonjumper hears themself say, “the reason I haven’t seen you these past few months is because you thought Vanessa’s actions were your fault, so you avoided me because you felt guilty? And you thought that not interacting with me at all would be safer and make up for what happened?”

“W-well, I — not  _ really _ ,” Snatcher blusters, but he coils in even tighter til he resembles nothing so much as an anxious snake. “It’s a, ah, a lot more complicated than that.”

Moonjumper likes being Luka, likes knowing who they were and how that informs who they are now. But Snatcher is more important.

They have to hold off telling him about who they were — just for a little longer. Just until Snatcher is a little more settled in himself.

“Well,” they say slowly, “you’re right in one respect, Snatcher: you _are_ a fool.” Snatcher makes an offended noise into his coils and Moonjumper forces on a smile for him. “I _don’t_ blame you for what happened. But I do blame you for avoiding me — do you have any idea how useless the Subconites are at sending ghosts off? I’ve been struggling doing this all on my own — I _need_ you, Snatcher, if only because I’d prefer to have a partner that doesn’t get distracted partway through a job to go chase moths.”

“They’re not  _ that  _ bad,” Snatcher protests, but they can see the corner of his lip twitching. “It’s possible to keep them focused;  _ you  _ just don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Exactly!” Moonjumper says, flashing him an intentionally toothy grin. “And your contracts have been the only thing keeping  _ me _ on-task; you can’t imagine how useless I would have been without them. Honestly, Snatcher, I understand why you kept away, but I can’t do this alone. Subcon needs you just as much as — if not  _ more  _ than — it needs me.”

“Subcon  _ does  _ need you,” Snatcher says slowly. “Which, kid, actually brings me to my next point: why did you leave?”

Moonjumper blinks at Snatcher, whose expression is once again darkening. “Well, ah, I bring Florence to her sister’s once a week, and I run errands in Academia, and I’ve… actually met some people there? We’ve been discussing magic — which reminds me, I’ve found a solution to your soul prob—”

“But  _ why _ ,” Snatcher interrupts, voice small and tense, “did you stay away for so _ long _ ? I… I thought you were  _ gone _ .”

“I,” says Moonjumper, “didn’t? I wasn’t — I was only gone for—?”

“A  _ week _ ,” Snatcher hisses. His souls flash and jerk across his form. “You’ve been gone for a week — I thought you were  _ gone _ , I thought you had  _ left me _ .”

Snatcher starts to rise, the strange dark substance that makes up his form puffing out and making him look larger; his eyes narrow and he snarls, golden light spilling out between his fangs. The world around them darkens, the fogs grow heavier, and Moonjumper’s magic twists uncertainly — what is he talking about? A week?

“You can’t  _ do  _ that,” Snatcher snaps. “You can’t — can’t just leave without saying anything! I — Subcon  _ needs  _ you. You  _ can’t leave _ .”

“I, I don’t mean to,” Moonjumper blurts. “I wouldn’t — I didn’t  _ want  _ to leave you, I — I…”

They think, suddenly, of the number of books they read in one sitting at the Time’s End. They think of how many times Tim relit their lamp for them. They think of the fact that their body doesn’t need to eat or sleep, how it doesn’t send any signals to their brain about the passage of time. They think of how bad their headache was by the end. They think of the fact that, though they hardly noticed, their friends were wearing different outfits when they burst in after all that time reading. They think of how they only ever arrive at the Time’s End in the late afternoon, and right now it couldn’t be later than three o’clock.

“...I,” says Moonjumper breathlessly. “I think… I forgot time?”

“You  _ forgot the time _ ?” Snatcher growls, eyes flashing. “You think  _ that  _ excuses—”

“No!” Moonjumper snaps back, clutching at their arms — their magic is warping reality hard, but they can barely focus on that — a  _ week _ ? They didn’t notice a whole  _ week _ ?? “I forgot — the  _ concept  _ of time. I, I forgot — I was a piece of the Horizon, time wasn’t — I was so focused on fixing the problem that I forgot—?”

They can’t breathe — but they don’t  _ need _ to breathe — they’ve been dead for a long time now, they should be able to handle this — Moonjumper grits their teeth and digs their fingers into their thin arms, trying to stay focused and present. They lost an entire week because they weren’t paying attention; who knows how much time they might lose next?

Something warm touches their shoulder. It’s hesitant at first, light, but then it grips them hard and holds on. “Hey — hey. Kid, don’t — come on, it’s alright. I shouldn’t have — I’m sorry—”

“ _ No _ ,” Moonjumper gasps back, shaking their head. “ _ I’m  _ sorry — not your fault, I should have noticed — I was so focused on reading, on solving the problem—” They wheeze a little bit, forcing on a smile for Snatcher, who only looks more worried as he hovers there beside them. “I — I found a s-solution to your soul problem, though!”

“You—?” Snatcher’s eyes widen; then he huffs a weak laugh in return. “Should have known you’d still be worried about that. It doesn’t matter, kid.”

“It  _ does _ ,” they insist. They manage to take a short breath, and another, and they pin Snatcher with their gaze. “It’s i-important.”

His face does something complicated. Finally, he breathes out a gusty sigh. “You and I — we’re kind of a mess, aren’t we?”

Moonjumper chuckles through a nervous hiccup. They take a few more breaths, watching their flitting magic calm around them. “Th-that does s-seem to be the case, yes.”

Snatcher’s paw on their shoulder squeezes. Moonjumper’s magic slowly calms. They can breathe again; for a long moment, they just  _ exist _ , grateful to have Snatcher by their side again.

“Can we… not do this again?” they finally ask. They glance at Snatcher out of the corner of their eye; he’s frowning pensively at his free hand. “I… well, I missed you. And I think we could have gotten farther with sending off ghosts and solving the soul problem if we had been together.”

“...Ugh, fine,” Snatcher says, throwing his free hand in the air as though exasperated, but he keeps the other firmly on their shoulder. “Since you so _clearly_ need the help, I guess I’ll stick around. But you can’t just disappear like that again, alright?” The ghost glances sidelong at Moonjumper, yellow eyes intense. “I — Subcon _needs_ you.”

Moonjumper swallows dryly. Vanessa had said that same sentiment, over and over — she had kept them trapped —

_ But this isn’t anything like that, _ they tell themself.  _ Subcon and Snatcher really  _ do _ need me. This is different. _

...Right?

“I’ll do my best,” they tell Snatcher, gathering their nerve. “But once a week, I’m still going out. You, ah, you could even come with me sometime…?”

Snatcher laughs loudly, and the sound is so familiar that Moonjumper can’t help the smile that tugs on their face. “I don’t think so, kid, but feel free to go yourself — I’m not interested in keeping you trapped here with me, after all.” They blink, startled that he so accurately guessed their concern, but he’s already floated up and extended a paw to them, grinning. “Let’s get you back to your house, Moonjumper.”

“My house?” they say as they grasp Snatcher’s hand in their own and get to their non-existent feet. The ghost’s face turns unamused and he raises a hand towards them — Moonjumper flinches back —

But Snatcher merely ruffles their hair and rolls his eyes. “Yes,  _ your _ house, fool. We built it for you, remember?”

“Well, yes, but — I thought maybe, since you were mad at me—?” Snatcher’s glowing eyes narrow and Moonjumper rapidly switches tack. “I mean, of  _ course _ I knew it was my house,” they bluster, only a little hammily. “Certainly I knew that! Obviously.”

“Mhmm,” Snatcher says, clearly unconvinced, but that’s fine — they’d rather he see through this particular bald-faced lie than any more important ones in the future.

They traverse the forest in companionable silence for a little while before Snatcher speaks up again.

“I can’t believe you punched me in the face,” he says mildly, and Moonjumper immediately covers their face with their hands.

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” they moan. “It was mostly instinct, and I really thought you were going to kill me. I swear, Snatcher, if I had known you just wanted to talk…”

“It’s fine,” he says with a grin. “Didn’t even hurt — but you better believe I’m going to bring it up every chance I get, kid.”

“That’s fair,” they admit through their fingers as the stone cabin comes into view. “...it  _ was _ kind of funny, though, wasn’t it?”

“I  _ know  _ —  _ you,  _ Mr. Manners, hauling back to punch someone? To punch  _ me _ ?? Absurd!” Snatcher barks, laughing, and Moonjumper sniggers along, pressing an embarrassed hand to their cheek. “...and, ah, there’s just one more thing,” the ghost continues, suddenly uncomfortable.

Moonjumper stops laughing and drops their hands from their face to stare at Snatcher, Horizon immediately twisting with dread in their chest.  _ What now? What else could there possibly be? _

“I left something for you in the house,” he admits, fiddling with his paws. “It’s  _ not  _ a big deal, and I only made it because I needed to practice with these hands, and then I thought you were staying out later because you were mad at me so I thought — look, it’s not important, alright? Just don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“...what?” Moonjumper asks. They come to a halt before the door, blinking at Snatcher, but the ghost is avoiding eye contact again. “Snatcher, what—?”

“It’s  _ not  _ a big deal,” he repeats quickly. “Look, I’ll — I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?” He turns to go.

Moonjumper has to resist the sudden, panic-driven urge to reach out; they must make some sort of noise because Snatcher briefly turns back, glowing eyes softening.

“Really — I’ll see you tomorrow, Moonjumper. We can talk about the rest of this after you, well, rest. Alright, kid?”

“...Alright,” Moonjumper manages. Snatcher smiles at them, waves lazily, and flies off into the forest.

When they can’t see him anymore, they let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding and open the cabin door. It’s much the same as they left it, besides the addition of a soft-looking package on the bed, and Moonjumper sighs in relief to see the place. It may not have  _ felt  _ like such a long time, but it’s been a full week since they could last just relax, and  _ goodness  _ but the last hour or two have felt long.

They drape their cloak over the salvaged coathanger and untie their mask to leave it on the nightstand. They scrub at their face — the mask isn’t uncomfortable, but this is the longest they’ve had it on in a while — and decide to deal with the package first. Delicately, Moonjumper unwraps the tissue paper gift on their bed to reveal...

It’s an indigo sweater, clearly hand-knitted. Some of the stitches are loose and uneven, like the person who made it was unused to their hands, but they also improved as they went. Around the collar, the knitter even included a recognizable pattern of the lunar phases in pale blue and a striking, bright red.

“It’s… a moon jumper,” they say in disbelief.

Their magic warps the gift in their hands for a moment because  _ Snatcher made this for you and you’re lying to him about who you are  _ — but they squash down on those feelings. They’re not  _ lying _ , they’re just… withholding information that would hurt him. Moonjumper can do more for Snatcher if the ghost doesn’t hate them — really, this is for his own good, and for Subcon’s. Moonjumper  _ has _ to believe that.

They set the knitted jumper aside, smoothing out its folds, and sink onto the bed to rub their eyes for a moment. Their headache is holding off for now, but they’re exhausted — they even forgot to give Snatcher the strand of Thor’s soul they spent so much time working on. They’ll have to give it to him tomorrow, explain how he can do it himself, get started on sending off more ghosts, start working on Thor’s project, make sure they prevent Snatcher from inadvertently learning that Moonjumper was ever Luka…

In the privacy of their own home, Moonjumper tips their head back and allows themself to groan. This… is going to be complicated.

_ Hey,  _ says the comforting voice in their head,  _ it could always be worse. _

At which point the door  _ slams  _ open to reveal a familiar, dirt-stained bound ghost.

“Moonjumper!” she cries. “I heard from Snatcher that—”

Moonjumper stares at the new arrival in horror. They reach desperately for their mask but it’s too late, much too late.

“Moonjumper?” Florence asks. “... _ Prince Luka _ ? …oh, fuck.”

Moonjumper finds that they agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: hyper-fixating so hard u lose track of time; minor pain management; literally running away from ur problems; minor violence/fighting; minor panic attack; lying about something you rly shouldn't lie about; accidental identity reveals.
> 
> 1\. this fic’s alternate title is Moonjumper Just Cannot Catch a Break  
> 2\. why did i open this w 750 words of the nerd club’s goofy shenanigans? bc despite all evidence to the contrary i DO love mj and i want them to have as many nice moments as possible as we start the inevitable downward slide towards the end of act2. also bc of this chapter i actually tried eating a (paper) teabag; would not recommend.  
> 3\. getting these two confrontation-avoidant, self-loathing, codependent losers to talk to each other was SUCH a pain that partway thru i actually started drawing for the first time in years in my own effort to avoid them. my dudes u both suck and ur both fine just talk to each other  
> 4\. mj gesturing to their core: “i will keep all my emotions about snatcher loathing the person i used to be right here, and then one day i’ll - hang on a minute. i’m /already/ dead. ...haha guess i’ll just keep this up forever (8 ” buddy NO  
> 5\. your comments are rly helpful both as motivation and to let me know how the different parts of the story are hitting, esp since in a few chapters we’ll reach the end of act2 and i’ve given myself permission to do a little editing then. knowing what needs clarification, emphasis, what stands out etc is SO USEFUL to me, so: thank you!! :)  
> 6\. up next: florence’s reaction and... something else, oh god where are my notes
> 
> i hope this story finds you well. til next time!


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